Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

The dim hotel room isn't much different than any other. Bass sits in the lone chair by the window, watching the lights of passing traffic. The large AC unit below the window chugs and whines in its attempt to cool the room. Mostly it just spits out stale air that smells a lot like an old basement.

Charlotte is asleep, sprawled across the center of the paisley cover on the king size bed. Record attendance at a sales conference had limited the number of rooms available in Oklahoma City and they'd been lucky to find this one. Bass wants to sleep. Needs to sleep. He can't. Every time he drifts off, he is jerked awake by images of Connor and that bloody desert.

His eyes burn with exhaustion as he watches Charlotte doze. He envies the way she can rest so fully, as if she doesn't have a care in the world. Only a bottle of booze will get him where she is. He curses under his breath at that particular thought. She has told him she'll leave if he gets drunk again and if she leaves, he'll never get the answers he needs. Feeling defeated, he leans back in the chair and closes his eyes.

In less than a minute his eyes are wide open again, and his mind is filled with images from a particularly disturbing dream. Vivid dreams are nothing new, but this one hadn't been about blood and loss and Connor's death. Instead, his sleeping mind had lured his dream self into that king size bed. Charlotte had been awake and naked and very enthusiastic...

"Shit," he mutters, running a hand uneasily through his curls. An erotic dream about her is almost as unnerving as the other darker dreams had been, although in a very different way. Regardless, he needs to do something to shake himself away from that particular line of thought.

The answer is simple. No matter what Charlotte plans to do, Bass needs a drink. He needs it now. Decision made, he stands and finds his duffel in the small closet. He fishes out one of the two emergency bottles of whiskey he had purchased at Wal Mart after leaving Jasper.

He unscrews the cap and takes a long, satisfying drink. As the welcome warmth of the whiskey slides down his throat, he sighs contentedly. This is what he had wanted and needed. He takes another drink and then looks over at Charlotte once more. The room is shadowy, but he can make out her form, lying prone on the bed. He takes another sip, hoping she'll sleep till morning. Bass allows his gaze to trail down the luscious lines of her body. His mind is once again filled with images from his dream.

Bass shakes his head. The booze isn't even going to help unless he can get some space. Maybe taking a walk will help him focus.

He lets himself out of the room silently, pocketing his key card before making his way out into the humid summer night. The air is sticky and still. He picks a direction randomly and begins to walk. Headlights and the whoosh of passing traffic are his only company. Now and then, he takes a drink from the bottle. With each swallow of the warm amber liquid, calmness begins to settle into his bones.

Half the bottle is gone when he sees a sign that says the Oklahoma City bombing memorial lies just a few blocks ahead. Coming to a stop, he decides to change direction. He has enough darkness swirling in his soul and isn't sure he can take more reminders of grief right now.

Bass has turned onto a street that is lined with dark office buildings. A few pedestrians can be seen here and there, but generally the road is a quiet one. He passes a couple college girls giggling into their phones. He guesses they are the same age as Charlotte, but nothing at all like her. He tries to imagine her giggling over anything at all, and can't.

Moments later, he sees a homeless man sitting in a doorway. The man's eyes are downcast as he holds out an empty cup, shaking a few coins inside. Bass feels in his pockets but other than the hotel key card and the credit card he'd grabbed just in case, they are empty. He looks at the bottle in his hand which is also almost empty, but it's all he has to offer. He hands the bottle to the man who flashes him a toothless grin of thanks as he takes it.

It doesn't take Bass long to find a liquor store that is open so that he can replace his old bottle with a new one. He goes inside and buys a fifth of Jack Daniels, which the bored cashier hands to him wrapped in a brown paper bag.

Bass is back on the street, sipping from his whiskey and walking aimlessly when someone falls into step at his side. He glances at his visitor and the corners of his mouth tilt up in a small smile. "Connor."

Connor looks as alive as he ever had, wearing an old tee shirt and faded jeans. His hands are jammed into his pockets and his curls shift limply in the humid breeze. "Hey, Dad."

Bass stops to face his son. "So, she was right. You only show up when I'm drinking."

Connor shrugs. "Just seemed like maybe you needed me."

"I wasn't complaining. I always need you. Miss you."

"I know."

Connor begins to walk and Bass walks with him. They don't speak for a while. Eventually, Connor breaks the silence. "You aren't limping as much."

Bass glances down at his leg, surprised to realize that Connor is right. "Yeah, I guess it feels better. Charlotte helped me with some medicine… " His voice trails off as his thoughts turn to her.


Charlie opens her eyes, and she knows without checking that she is alone in the hotel room. She sits up slowly looks around the room, searching for evidence that she's wrong. "Nothing to see here, Charlie," she mutters with a frustrated sigh.

She stands and walks to the window, pulling aside the curtains and looking out on the dark night. She can see the Cutlass parked in the spot where they'd left it, so wherever he is – he's on foot.

Charlie walks over to the bed and flops down on her back. Where did he go? Why did he go? Is he coming back? Is he still alive? She had been so sure he was doing better, but what if that wasn't true? What if he decided not to wait for answers from Charlie's mom? What if he gave up and he's lying dead in an alley right now? And why does she even care?

Except, for some unknown and incomprehensible reason, it seems that she does care.

Restless and frustrated, she stands again and begins to pace, but wearing a path in the faded hotel carpet isn't helping. Her brain is working in overdrive – thoughts pinging around almost faster than she can process them. What if he is dead? Will she even know? It's not like anyone would know to come here and tell her. If he had decided to kill himself, what would his plan be? Would he jump in front of a bus? Off a building? She can't remember where he put the gun. The car, maybe? His bag?

Charlie swivels toward the corner where his duffel bag sits. She drops to her knees and begins to dig through the sparse contents. A few tee shirts and some jeans, some toiletry items, a few pairs of boxers. There is no gun, but underneath the clothing, she finds an a scuffed (empty) flask, an old cigar box and something hard wrapped in a plastic shopping bag. She looks inside the plastic bag first and finds a bottle of Jack Daniels. She sets the bottle aside and turns her attention to the old cigar box. Inside she finds an assortment of well read post cards. She uses a sliver of light from the streetlamp outside to read a few of them. They are all written to Bass from Connor. Each message is filled with humor and love and evidence that these two men were more than family. They were friends as well.

Under the postcards, she finds a few candid snapshots wrapped with a blue ribbon. Most show a man who she assumes is Connor. She sees him leaning against the very car she's been riding in this week. Another picture shows him in Army fatigues. A third shows Connor wearing an old baseball cap on his head and with a half smoked cigarette between his lips. He looks mildly annoyed in that one, as is further evidenced by the bird he's flashing the camera.

The final picture in the little pile shows the two of them together. They are dressed casually, sitting at a round table in a bar. Bottles of beer sit on the tabletop between them. They are both smiling at the camera – big, warm, genuine smiles.

Charlie bites her lip as she stares at the image of this other, less broken version of Bass. She glances at the time stamp. The picture is a year old. What a difference a year can make. In the image, Connor is alive and happy. Bass is clean shaven and his eyes are shining brightly. His curls are cropped short and his skin is tan. His body looks lithe and muscular instead of gaunt. He looks healthy – not just on the outside, but the inside as well.

She sets the photos aside with the post cards. The next thing in the cigar box is a worn leather wallet.

She picks up the wallet, surprised to see her fingers trembling as she opens it up. Bass's driver's license is the first thing she sees. She notes that his last address was in Pennsylvania and his real name is Sebastian. Charlie wrinkles her nose with distaste. No wonder he goes by Bass. His birthday makes him almost twenty-five years her senior. She supposes that's not a big surprise. She finds a debit card and a few credit cards. He has military ID and an old library card. That library card makes her smile.

In a narrow pocket, she finds a plastic book style photo holder. Charlie pulls it out and stares at the image on top. This is the Connor she remembers, and based on the fact that the little boy in the picture is wearing a bow tie, it may actually have been taken on the same day she had met him all those years ago. She flips the page and looks at the next photo in the tiny booklet. This is a wedding photo of Bass and his wife. Charlie traces a finger along Bass's chin. He's staring down at his bride with such adoration that her heart aches for him. She turns the page and the next photo is grainy and creased. She squints, but it takes her a moment to make out that it is an ultrasound picture of an unborn baby. In the corner of the image are the words "Baby Monroe" in tiny white text.

Charlie closes her eyes but feels tears squeezing through her lashes anyway. She flips quickly through the rest of the pictures: an older couple on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary cutting a big cake, a family photo showing a younger version of the same couple with three blond children on their laps – two girls and a boy. The boy is clearly trying to hold in a giggle. He is also clearly Bass. Behind those photos, she finds a senior portrait of Connor's and his official Army portrait as well. The final picture in the little photo wallet is an old one of Bass and three other men. They are all wearing the fatigues used in desert operations. They are all grinning at the camera. She immediately recognizes Bass, and the man standing next to him is immediately recognizable as well. She'd know her uncle Miles's smirk anywhere.

She carefully puts all of the items back into the cigar box and places it back in the duffel. She keeps the bottle of whiskey, turning it gently in her fingers. Charlie isn't a big drinker but the liquor tempts her. She promises herself that she'll only take a drink if he's not back in fifteen minutes.

Charlie only waits five before unscrewing the lid.


"She's getting under your skin, isn't she?" Connor asks his father. They've been wandering along the dark streets in silence for a while.

"No, she's not."

"I think you like her. If you let her, I think she could help you, and I don't just mean with first aid."

"Don't want her help."

"Not sure you get a say. You are already better. Can't you see it? Just being around her is changing your outlook."

"No. It's not." He holds up the bottle as evidence that he's just as fucked up as ever.

Connor chuckles. "I'm not saying she's turned you into a Mormon. I'm saying she's helping you. I think that in her own way, she cares. She doesn't want you to kill yourself."

"Not up to her, is it?"

"Dad, nobody wants you to kill yourself. Nobody."

"I do."

Connor lays a hand on Bass's arm. "That's the thing. I don't think you still want that at all, and I think it's because of her."

Bass shakes his head as his throat tightens and tears well. Connor's touch feels so real that Bass can barely focus on the conversation. "Need her mom's help. Charlotte is a means to an end. That's all."

"Bullshit. You can't lie to me, remember? I'm inside your head and I know she's not just some girl anymore. She's special."

Bass thinks about Charlie, asleep and alone in their hotel room. He takes another drink from the bottle nestled in the brown paper bag and glances around. For the first time, he starts to think about just how far from the hotel he's wandered. "Should head back. She was asleep when I left, but…" He shrugs.

Connor smirks, but doesn't say anything as he follows his dad's lead.

"Ah hell, maybe you're right." Bass stares at his walking feet as he speaks.

"Probably, yeah." Connor chuckles. "About what specifically?"

"She's not just a means to an end. She's – " he falters. "Something more, I guess."

"Finally!" Connor punches the air in exaggerated victory. "Took you long enough to admit it."

"Doesn't change anything, Connor. Doesn't even mean anything."

Connor's smile fades. "Yeah, it does."

They walk quietly along the dimly lit streets. The hotel is still a few blocks away when Bass sighs. "This feels like a goodbye. Is it goodbye?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

Bass takes another drink, watching his son warily. "I want to be with you. I want to be where you are."

"No. You really don't. You want to be here. You need her, and I think maybe she needs you."

"Bullshit." Bass closes his eyes tight. He is angry and frustrated and drunk. Thoughts swirl in his mind like a slide show: Connor's death… that awful VA hospital and the farce of a military investigation… the kidnapping back in Boston… that lunatic who had wanted to hurt her behind that gas station, the house in Jasper and how she'd stayed to take care of him when she could have run...

The fact that she still hasn't run….

When he begins to think of their current situation, he is overcome by a feeling of unease. He hadn't left a note. What if she woke up and is worried? He tries to brush those thoughts aside. She's fine. He's sure of it. "You're wrong. She doesn't need me."

There is no response, and when Bass looks over, the image of Connor is gone. He stares at the half-empty bottle in his hands and chucks it into a nearby trash barrel. His thoughts are dark and his mood even darker as he buries his hands in his pockets and heads back to the hotel.


Randall Flynn sits in a dimly lit office. At his back is a large window with a view of the Washington DC skyline. The White House is visible in the distance, illuminated like a beacon. He doesn't notice the iconic view, staring instead at the framed photo clutched in his hands. The young man in the picture has black hair and shining green eyes and wears an Army dress uniform. He stands in front of an American flag, and he's smiling at the camera, seemingly unfazed by the uncertainty of his profession.

Flynn lovingly traces the strong chin in the image with a fingertip. "Eddie."

He can't believe it's been ten years since he'd answered that fateful knock on his door. Ten years since his wife had gone into hysterics. Ten years since he'd grieved both the death of his only son and the death of his master plan as well. By then, it wasn't solely his plan anymore of course. It had been adopted by the Patriot Counsel years earlier. No matter. The loss – both personal and professional – had been acute.

Publicly, he had grieved at his son's gravesite. Privately, he'd met with members of the Counsel who shared his fear that years of planning had died with the boy in the coffin.

Those years of planning had started innocently enough when a group of government officials - all devastated and disheartened by the tragedy of 9/11 – had begun to meet in secret. They called themselves "Patriots," but their gatherings took a few years to evolve into the secret society they would eventually become. Flynn had been a charter member of the group and had helped to recruit men and women from all branches of the American military and the intelligence community to join. By the time Project Sunrise has launched, the "Patriots" numbered in the hundreds and included four senators, two Supreme Court Justices and the Vice President of the United States.

In the beginning, the Patriot Counsel had been directionless. They wanted change, but weren't in agreement on how to initiate it. A solution was needed, but seemed out of reach. Then on a fateful night nearly three years after the towers had fallen, Randall Flynn had an idea that could change the landscape of American politics for generations to come.

Flynn sat across the aisle from fellow council member Senator Jack Davis. "Did you ever read the Manchurian Candidate?"

"In college, I guess. Why?" Davis looked bored. "You want to create a sleeper agent who will assassinate the president?"

"Sleeper agent, yes. Assassin, no." Flynn had leaned back and smiled humorlessly. "Doesn't the idea of shaping someone to be who you want them to be strike you as appealing?"

"Well yes, I guess so." Davis narrowed his eyes, suddenly interested. "What do you have in mind?"

"Forget assassination as a way to manage governmental leadership. What if we created the perfect president ourselves? Start with an impressionable child and give him our ideals and goals and shape him to be the leader we want? The leader we need?"

"You're talking about brainwashing some kid to someday lead the free world?"

"Brainwashing is such an archaic term." Flynn shook his head. "No, I think we would call it reprogramming. We plant our ideology in his head. We send him to the right schools so that the educated voters will like him. We sign him up in the military which gives us the military vote. We could figure out the details later but you get the idea." His smile grew as he thought of his own son who was in seventh grade and had been spending far too much time with a crowd of unworthy boys. If anyone was in need of a little reprogramming, it was Eddie. "And I think I know just the right boy for the task."

"What you're talking about would take forever. Why not just pick one of us. Hell, I'll do it. No brainwashing required."

Flynn shook his head. "No. We need a fresh face. An unknown. We need an all-American kid who has no skeletons in his closet and is still young enough to make a real impact in the long-run."

"You're right. That does count all of us out." Davis took another drink. "So who do you have in mind to be this chosen one?"

Flynn grinned then, his eyes sparkling. "Chosen one. I like that. And since you ask, his name is Edward. We call him Eddie. He's thirteen."

Randall Flynn lovingly sets the photo back on his desk and sighs. The memories never leave him, even after all these years. Sometimes he wonders what might have happened if he'd just left things alone. He wonders if his son would be alive if…

Randall frowns. Too many ifs.

He turns on his computer and opens a file. The new boy is no Eddie, but he'll do. Flynn's jaw tightens as he stares at a photo on his screen and into the eyes of the second 'Chosen One'. This young man is not only Eddie's replacement. He is also the Patriot Counsel's last chance to shape the American government from the ground up. They don't have the time to start over again and would be hard pressed to find another perfect subject even if they did.

This new boy is everything they want, although Flynn supposes it's high time he stops thinking of him as a boy. Yes, he'd been one when he was first selected, but that had been a few years after Eddie's death. The new chosen one is a man now. He is strong, bold and smart. He has flaws, but has been resilient so far. There had been that mess in Afghanistan, but the dust has settled and now the coast is clear for the Patriot plan to finally fall into place.

Flynn tries to imagine this boy in another ten years when he'll be old enough to run for President. By then, he'll be a respected veteran with a law degree and at least one term as a US Representative. At that point, the future is wide open for this next chapter in the Patriot Counsel's playbook. Randall Flynn smiles sadly. Flynn hopes for the sake of the nation that this second 'Chosen One' will succeed.

He looks at the face on his computer screen once more. If all goes well, this is a face which will someday be known and beloved on all corners of the Earth. He will lead the U.S., and if the Patriot counsel has its way, eventually the entire world.

Flynn smiles humorlessly at the image of Army Private Jason Neville. "You are no Eddie Flynn, but I suppose you'll do."


The night is full and dark as the GTO Judge pulls into the small lake side town of Chandler, Oklahoma just before midnight. Jeremy Baker is asleep in the backseat. Miles is staring at a small black tablet in his lap. A soft red dot blinks steadily. Without looking up, he says, "Go ahead and park. We're close."

Strausser eases his beloved car into a space in a lot that borders a small park. They get out and Will pulls two flashlights from the trunk. He hands one to Miles, and the two men head toward the water which is where Miles's police issue GPS tracker indicates Bass should be. They don't bother waking Jeremy.

They get to the lake's edge. The air is filled with the sounds of crickets and the water is still. The picnic area is deserted.

"Maybe your beeper thing is wrong?" Will suggests.

Miles scowls down at the device in his hand. "It's not the machine. The signal is solid." The soft beeping becomes more urgent as they approach one of the picnic tables. The beep changes into a long unbroken tone and Miles comes to a stop, shining his light around the dirt under the table he's standing next to.

He finds the phone easily. "God damnit. We were so close."

"What now?" Strausser asks.

Miles scowls as he pockets the phone. "Let's look around and see if we can find anything else."

"What? You think he dropped a road map with a big red 'X' marking his destination? This isn't Scooby Doo, Miles. Let's go."

Miles turns and advances on Will. "Go where, exactly? Where the fuck do we look now? He's in trouble, and we don't know where he is or where he's headed."

"Hey, don't yell at me. I'm worried just like you are. Freaking out will get us nowhere and you know it."

The GPS is still beeping, and Miles throws it against the picnic table. There is a pathetic crunching noise followed by silence. Miles stares down at the broken device. "Fuck!"

"That was helpful," Will drawls.

"Don't start, Strausser. Come on. Let's wake Jeremy up. We need to come up with a plan."


When Bass gets back to the hotel and lets himself in, hours have passed and the room is very dark. He closes the door behind him quietly, hoping not to wake her. He toes off his boots and pulls off his shirt, throwing it on top of his duffel.

Wearing only jeans, he heads toward the bed. He considers sleeping on the floor for a moment, but tosses the thought quickly. It's a big bed and his body yearns for sleep. He sits on the bed's edge and glances up when her voice breaks the silence.

"So, you aren't dead."

He can tell by her tone that she's drunk and agitated. He flips on the bedside lamp, and sees that she's sitting on the floor in a corner, cradling his other bottle of Jack – the one he'd left hidden in his bag. Bass frowns at the bottle, which is three quarters empty. "Thought you didn't drink?"

"Don't usually."

"Why tonight?" He stands and walks closer, worried, even though he tells himself he shouldn't be.

"Thought you left."

"Just went for a walk."

"Thought you left and weren't coming back. Everyone leaves me and doesn't come back." Her glare is defiant.

He takes the bottle from her and screws the lid back on. "I came back."

She stands and faces him. She's wearing only panties and a tank top and the view isn't lost on Bass. He swallows hard, and tries to focus on her words when she speaks. "Yeah, you came back, but you're drunk. You know you shouldn't drink. I thought we had a deal."

Bass cocks an eyebrow. "Says the girl who stole my booze and drank almost all of it."

She shrugs. "I was pissed. Thought you left, but then I found your bag. Looked inside and found the bottle. I wasn't going to drink, but you were gone a long time."

"And that pissed you off."

"Yeah, I guess so." She walks to the window and looks out. "It doesn't matter. Thought maybe I could help you, but who was I kidding? I sat here drinking for a long time, and I realized something."

"What?"

"I'm in no shape to help anybody." She sounds moody and morose.

"You really don't handle liquor very well, do you? I can see why you don't usually drink."

She ignores him as she continues. "Not sure how much time I should waste on you. You're a crazy mess, but you don't want my help and besides – you are temporary. We both know you'll leave me too."

He throws his hands up in the air. "What does that even mean? This was always going to be temporary. I'll take you to your mom and she will give me what I want and then you won't see me again." He can see her jaw tightening. "Everything is temporary, Charlotte. Life itself is temporary." His words fade as he watches the glow of the lamp light reflect off her golden skin.

Seemingly unaware of his wandering thoughts, she tightens her hands into fists and advances on him. "Why do you call me that? Nobody calls me Charlotte."

He looks at her blankly. "Charlotte? Isn't that your name?"

"Yes, it's my name, but nobody calls me that. It's Charlie. Just call me Charlie."

He pauses, watching her carefully. "Sorry, Charlie."

"You think this is funny?"

"No. I think you're drunk and I think your shitty attitude is killing my buzz."

Her entire body tenses and her eyes narrow. "I hate you."

"You should."

Charlie loses it then, charging him and slamming her fists against his chest repeatedly. "Why are you like this? Why are you driving me crazy?"

"I told you. I just want answers, and your Mom has them."

"Don't want to talk about her."

"So, what do you want to talk about? What do you want from me?" Bass feels anger glowing dully in his gut. He has enough on his mind without her yelling at him.

She brushes tears from her cheeks and meets his gaze, her expression is one of stubborn resolve. He's not sure what's going on in her head, but it looks like she's made some sort of decision. She moves in closer, and he feels his anger evolve into something else entirely.

Even the faint glow of the lamplight can't dim the brilliant blue of her eyes as she looks up at him. He watches her – the way her hair falls in long curls around her shoulders, the way her skin glows gold in the low light, the way she bites her lip, deep in thought….

Bass lets out a low sigh as one thought pushes all others away. Charlie is beautiful. He's known this all along, of course, but now he can focus on nothing but her beauty and her strength, and the way her breasts press against the thin tank top. He draws his gaze back to her face once more. Even when she's drunk and angry, she is still breathtaking. Bass frowns down at her, but doesn't move away when she steps closer.

Charlie lays her hand flat against his bare chest and stares at her fingers as she speaks. Her words are soft and very low. "I want to help you. I want to make things better. I want –"

"What?"

"I want to forget, and I want to help you forget too."

The reality of what she seems to be hinting at hits him full force. They are half naked, more than a little drunk and a lot sad. They are alone in a dark hotel room that boasts only one bed. The single bed hadn't seemed like an issue at check in. After all, they had shared a bed in Jasper. Nothing happened there. But in Jasper there hadn't been this underlying pull that is suddenly undeniable.

Her gaze lowers from his eyes to his mouth and she licks her lips. She's not pounding on his chest anymore, but where her hands rest against his bare flesh, he feels a surge of sensation. Her anger has faded and the sudden stillness in the room is almost suffocating. He takes a half step back and she lets her arms fall.

"Forget what?" he finally asks, surprised that his voice sounds even a little bit normal when on the inside, his sudden need for her rages hotly.

"All of it."

"You can't just forget everything. Believe me." He runs a hand through his curls.

"But I can try." She takes a step forward, erasing the space he had created. "Help me forget."

"You're drunk."

"So are you."

"Whatever you're thinking - it's not a good idea."

"I think you know what I'm thinking, and it's not a bad idea."

"Charlotte," he warns. At the way her gaze goes stormy and dark, he remembers what she'd said before and corrects himself. "Charlie."

"Yeah?"

"You don't want me. You're right. I am temporary. I have nothing to offer you. I'm old and tired and in no condition to give you what you want, or anything at all. You can do better. You should do better."

"Maybe I don't want better.." She lifts her fingers to his face, stroking softly against his cheekbone and running her fingers down through his beard. Her heated gaze never leaves his. He feels his cock grow heavy with need.

"I know you want to say yes." She presses her palm flat over his chest again. "Your heart is pounding." Slowly she slides her hand down, her touch like velvet on silk. "You want this. You want me." As she strokes her hand over the growing bulge in his jeans, he shudders. "Let's forget together."

He does want her – supposes he has for a while, but probably not the way she wants him to. She's young and idealistic. She sees the best in people, even when there is nothing good to see. He stills her wandering hand and warns her, "You want some goddamned fairy tale where you fix me and we walk off into the sunset, holding hands? Cause that isn't going to happen. It's not even a faint possibility."

"Never said I wanted to walk off into the sunset."

"What do you want then? I kidnapped you. Do you know how wrong it would be for us to… for us to do anything like that at all?"

"So, now you grow a moral compass? I'm not your prisoner, Monroe. Haven't been for a while if you haven't noticed."

He hesitates. "I noticed."

"I had a lot of chances to get away. I didn't run."

"Why didn't you?"

"I just didn't want to. Couldn't. I'm here because I want to be here."

"Yeah, but –"

"No but. This is what I want. What we both want." She unbuttons his jeans slowly.

Bass realizes he's not even a little interested in fighting this anymore. He wants to feel her body wrapped around his. He wants to bury his cock in her heat and yes, he wants to forget, even if it's just for a little while. Tentatively, he reaches out and strokes his thumb along her collarbone. "If I say yes –"

"You're saying yes." She smiles and it's a smile that stretches across her face and makes his heartbeat stutter into yet a higher gear.

"If I say yes," he repeats. "I just want you to understand upfront that this isn't gonna be some Harlequin romance happily ever after bullshit."

Her smile fades, but she nods. "I'm okay with that."

"You're sure?" He isn't really waiting for a reply, but feels the question needs to be asked. He runs his palms across her shoulders and down her arms. He feels her shuddery intake of breath.

"Yeah. I'm sure." She leans in and goes to her tiptoes, pressing her mouth softly against his.

It is the softness of the kiss that gets him, that makes his mind wander to the words he'd heard from Connor earlier. He brushes those thoughts aside, knowing there is no hope in them. This isn't about her saving him or him saving her. This isn't about emotions. Like he'd told her; they have no future.

This is just fucking, he reminds himself.

But when Charlie kisses him gently and he feels her body, warm and pliant, in his arms, he can't focus because it doesn't feel like just fucking. It almost feels like more, but it can't ever be more, so he distances himself emotionally. He deepens the kiss, roughly responding to her softness. She doesn't seem to mind, exploring his bared flesh with her hands, stroking her fingernails lightly up and down his back.

Bass doesn't stop kissing her, but he does back her toward the bed. When her legs bump against the mattress, he pushes her onto it. Charlie falls back on her elbows, her eyes wide, her chest heaving.

He steps closer and reaches for his zipper. Slowly, he eases it down over the bulge of his hardening cock. Charlie scoots to the edge of the bed and reaches out to help him. "Careful with your leg," she says. She grasps the waistband of his jeans and edges them down slowly. The bandage on his thigh hasn't shifted and no blood has seeped through. "It's looking better," she says as she tenderly runs her fingers down the sides of his legs.

Bass steps out of his jeans and hesitates, still unsure if this is really what she wants. When her eyes trail lazily over tented boxers and up over his flat stomach and muscled abs, he can see the raw desire in her gaze. Yeah, she still wants this.

Charlie reaches for his boxers and eases them down without breaking eye contact. When the cotton shorts have been tossed aside, she wraps a hand around his cock, testing the width and length of it. She smiles in approval before leaning in and using her tongue to lap up a drop of pre-cum that has collected on the tip.

He bites his lip and closes his eyes as she begins to swirl her tongue around the flared head of his cock. Bass groans as Charlie takes his length into her perfectly hot mouth. When she takes him in deep, he opens his eyes and watches. He can't help but push his fingers into her hair as she licks and sucks his throbbing penis.

Bass massages her scalp, occasionally thrusting deeper into her throat. She doesn't object, letting him slide in as far as he can go. It is only when he notices her eyes watering that he pulls away, guiltily. She releases his cock and leans back, waiting for him to make the next move.

He leans in and pushes gently against her shoulders. Charlie takes the hint, falling onto her back with her hair spreading out around her head. Leaning down, he kisses her deeply, tasting himself on her tongue. Bass moves away from her mouth, ignoring Charlie's little moan of complaint. He nips little biting kisses along her jaw and down along her collarbone. He slides one hand under her tank, stroking the swell of her breast before gently tweaking the nipple there. Bass rakes his teeth down her chest, finding the nipple he'd teased, and licking the puckered nub through the thin fabric of the tank top.

Charlie bucks under him, and reaches down to give her pussy the attention he isn't paying it. Bass takes the hint and follows her hand with his own, pushing her panties aside. Without taking the nipple from his mouth, he begins to stroke her clit. She's very wet and soon his fingers are sliding in with shallow thrusts.

"Please, Monroe," she begs. "Need more than your fingers."

He moves back up her body, pulling her panties free and tossing them aside. He nuzzles her neck, kissing the flesh behind her ear. As he settles above her, he relishes the feel of her supple thighs as they wrap around his hips. He positions himself between her legs, brushing the head of his cock against the velvety slick of her pussy. She keens under him, lifting her hips from the bed. This move causes the first two inches of his dick to slide inside her.

"More," she says with a throaty plea.

Bass doesn't use words to respond, but edges his cock into her slowly. Her pussy is tight, hot and very wet. He struggles not to let loose and pound her senseless even though his instinct begs for exactly that. Instead he pumps in and out slowly, loving the way her needy cunt grips his cock.

Charlie pivots her hips to welcome his every thrust. Her fingernails scrape raw red stripes on his back and her heels cross over his ass. He can feel a change in her. Charlie's breathing is ragged and her body is tensing. He reaches between their bodies and rubs her clit until she comes. As her pussy spasms around his cock, he picks up his pace, fucking her with forceful thrusts until his own orgasm is upon him. He pulls from her and spurts his release across her thigh before rolling to lie on his back at her side.

They are both covered in a thin sheen of sweat and breathing heavily. Bass glances her way. "That was – " he hesitates, taking a steadying breath. "That was a mistake."

"No." Her voice is soft and small. "It wasn't." She's going to say more, but he rolls away, with his back to her, clearly not interested in talking about it further.


Miles, Jeremy and Will get two adjoining rooms in a shitty motel that appears to be a popular hangout for truckers and hookers. Jeremy is sitting on the edge of a lumpy bed, searching through the available channels with a remote that is connected to the television with a long thin cord. Miles pores over a road map of Oklahoma while Will goes to the car to retrieve their bags.

Strausser has just shut the trunk when he hears a phone ringing inside the car. He sets down the bags and begins searching the GTO's interior. He finds Bass's abandoned phone under the front passenger seat just as it stops ringing. On the screen it says "Missed Call – Rachel Matheson"

Will recoils with a hiss and carries the phone toward the motel. He lets the room door slam behind him and holds the phone out, only grasping it with a thumb and forefinger. "What the hell is your ex calling Bass for?"

Miles stares at the outstretched phone. "Rachel?"

Jeremy scrunches up his face in distaste without looking away from the television. "Never did care for that one."

Miles frowns. "She wasn't so bad."

"They say the memory is the first thing to go," Jeremy shakes his head with a distracted chuckle, already half engrossed in a baseball game on ESPN.

Will points at the phone. "Just hearing her name makes my dick shrivel. She was a cold hearted shrew."

"Truth," Jeremy agrees.

"Stop, both of you." Miles types some numbers into Bass's phone.

Will scowls at Miles. "How the hell do you know Bass's unlock code?"

"It's his Mom's birthday. He uses it for everything. Always has." Once he's in, Miles scrolls through recent calls and finds Rachel's number. She's called Bass several times, but it looks like he only answered once and that was more than a week ago.

"What the hell is going on?" he asks nobody in particular. "Why is Rachel calling Bass?"

"You gonna call her and find out?" Will asks.

"Maybe, but not yet. I need to think about this."

Jeremy grins. "Yeah, sure you do. I bet the truth is that you just don't want to talk to her any more than we do."


Even though Bass had made quite a production of rolling to his side of the bed after they'd fucked, it appears that unconscious Bass is a lot less guarded. Charlie smiles, snuggling deeper into his embrace. She's not sure when he came to her side of the bed to spoon her, but she won't complain.

It feels good to be wrapped in his arms. It feels right, somehow, even though she knows nothing about their situation is 'right'. Nobody would be able to convince her that it doesn't feel right, though. His naked body is hard and lean and fits perfectly against her softer curves. He snores quietly with his face buried in her hair, and one hand possessively cupping her left breast.

She knows that she should probably feel bad for getting drunk and seducing this man. He's not a poster child for mental health at the moment, after all. She should probably be filled with regret and worry. Fucking a guy she barely knows is one thing. Fucking a guy she only knows because he kidnapped her is quite another – and the fact that he's possibly on the verge of a complete mental breakdown doesn't help her case.

The thing is, she sees something else when she looks at him – something under the beard and the sadness and the crazy – something real. When she had first encountered him outside the shelter, she'd been sure he was unhinged and out of control. She's seen a different side of him this week, and it's occasionally been a side that intrigues her.

Charlie isn't sure what he'll think or say when he wakes up, but she knows that she isn't sorry.

He mumbles something in his sleep and squeezes her more snugly against him. She feels his cock twitch against her ass.

"Mmm," she hums, her voice throaty with approval.

He freezes behind her and starts to pull away as he wakes. Charlie reaches around and grasps his hip, pulling him closer to her body again. "Stay," she pleads, her voice a soft needy whisper.

"Why?"

"Because I like the way this feels."

He sighs. "It does feel good, but it's still a mistake."

"No," she says flatly.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to –"

"Didn't mean to what? Shove me into your trunk? Drag me cross country? Get to know me? Fuck me?"

He sighs. "All of it. I don't want to hurt you, Charlie." His voice is laced with sadness, but at least he isn't trying to move away anymore. His lips are close enough to her ear that she can feel his hot breath on her flesh.

"You act like I'm this delicate flower that will wilt as soon as you move on. I'm no delicate flower, Bass."

"I know, but you said everyone leaves you. Eventually, I'll leave you too and you know it. That's why you were upset. That's why you were drinking."

"I was upset because I thought you'd left without saying goodbye." She wiggles her ass against his thickening cock before pulling away slightly. "But that isn't what happened."

"But it will."

"I can take goodbye when it happens. What I can't take is you killing yourself. I am not so worried about that anymore."

"Why not?"

She shakes her head. "I'm not even sure exactly, but I don't think you're going to do that now." She gets up on her knees as he rolls to his back. Charlie crawls up to straddles his hips, her damp pussy rests on his hardening cock.

He is distracted by the sensation of Charlie's slick heat as she slowly begins to rub against his length. Breathing heavily, he makes an effort to speak. "I'm not making any promises. I don't know what my plans are now." He's having a difficult time focusing.

"We know one thing for sure." She begins to increase the pace of her movements and Bass grasps her thighs in response. "You aren't going anywhere right now."

"Stop. We can't do this again. I just told you all the reasons that we can't - "

"Yeah, but your reasons are stupid."

He wants to be unaffected, but the way she's moving is driving him crazy. She is warm and soft, and her gentle touches wake him in ways that he had assumed would never happen to him again.

He gives up all pretense of saying no when she leans in close and kisses his mouth.


Tom Neville sits low in the driver's seat of his old Cadillac. Occasionally he takes a drag from the cigarette that dangles loosely from his fingers. The Oklahoma night is full dark with only a flickering street light illuminating the entrance to the generic looking hotel Tom has been staring at for a couple hours. He'd watched Monroe leave the room and return. He doesn't know where the former Marine had gone or why and he guesses he should have followed, but he still wants to figure out how the girl plays into all this. Maybe she knew Connor? Maybe she's the key to the information Neville needs?

He grabs his cell phone when it rings. Glancing at the caller ID, he hits the green button and holds the phone to his ear. "Jason? What's wrong?"

The line crackles faintly. Even with modern technology being what it is, there are times when the connections are poor. This is evidently one of those times.

Jason's voice cuts in and out, but is still legible. "Did you get it?"

"Not yet. Be patient, boy. I'm working on it."

"Work faster. I need this shit cleared up. Flynn is going to have my head if – "

"Don't you ever talk to me with that tone. And don't worry about Flynn. I've been feeding him false information ever since it happened. He doesn't know anything."

"Are you sure?"

Neville's smile is cold and more than a little proud. "Yeah, he doesn't even know the real identity of Bennett's father. I intercepted the official report and changed the data. It pays to be his information specialist now and then."

"Better be careful or you and I will be sharing a cell. Pretty sure that tampering with government documents is not going to win you any favors, regardless of your job title."

"Don't you worry, son. I'll be wrapping this up soon. Have to. My vacation days will all be used up by the end of the week. I'll get the info Bennett gave his dad and everything can go back to normal."

"What about the money?"

"I have it with me. I'll make the payment as soon as this other business is taken care of."

"Be sure you do. Everything rides on all of this shit falling into place."

"Yes, Jason. I'm aware." Tom rolls his eyes. Sometimes this boy drives him crazy. "Any chance you can keep your nose clean while everything shakes out? We can't handle any more fuck ups."

Jason says something snarky but the connection is much worse now and the words are garbled. Tom's voice goes icy cold. "Watch yourself, boy. You treat me with respect. Especially after all I've done for you. I'm getting tired of cleaning up your goddamned messes."

Tom disconnects without waiting for a response. Tapping the phone lightly against the steering wheel, he watches the dark hotel. Tomorrow. That's when he'll make his move. He's wasted too much time traipsing after these two.

He will get what he's after tomorrow, and God help Monroe if he tries to get in the way of his plan. Neville pulls a large semi-automatic handgun from his glove box and looks at the way the steel barrel gleams in the glow of the streetlamp.

Tomorrow. That's when he'll get his answers and take care of this Monroe problem once and for all.


A/N: First of all, my apologies to anyone still bothering with this story. I'm very sorry for the delay in updates. Secondly, this story continues to be a birthday gift for Romeo. Hope you are enjoying it. Thirdly(?) Thanks so very much to Tex who gave me master level beta assistance and to Irish who has been a non-stop source of moral support as I plug along with this story. There are two chapters left. Lots of action (and some more familiar faces) lie ahead. I hope you'll stick around. Please leave a comment if you'd be so kind. -Lemon