A/N: Just a little note...haven't abandoned any of my stories. I'm leaving for a 3-week vacation in 4 days, there will probably be no updates during the period. Sorries! Also I'm cramming
for two finals right now, on top of all the vacation packing. Been updating the helix Vol 2 story because there's alot more written + I want it to chapter 80 by the time I leave.
Enjoy! Happy holidays!
-9-
thirty five dollars
Thursday, seven o' clock. Julian sat on the edge of the concrete planter, his feet an inch from the ground, his eyes twitching at every approaching engine,
every figure that rounded the corner. He'd spent all day waiting; he wasn't sure why this demanded so much of his attention. He'd caught himself, in the
bathroom, with gel in his hand—in his hair—something he hadn't done for ages, except for every Friday, now. Oh cripes. He'd given it one last ruffle,
stared at his reflection.
"Bloody Mary," he'd said, once. Just to test if she really meant it. Nothing happened, and he tossed his brush on the counter, feeling doubly stupid.
And here he was, in his uniform still. He'd washed it, though—Surge had tried to spark an argument about him hogging the washing machines when
she wanted to do hers; he'd ignored her, adding extra soap to make it take longer.
He twitched—no, not Laura, an old humpbacked lady. He looked beyond her—a girl walking a Chihuahua, on her cell phone. A crack addict screaming
something about God down the street. A man with sunglasses, getting into his Austin martin.
"Hello, sonny," the old lady was addressing him in a scratchy voice, clasping her purse.
He raised his eyebrow and made a face. "Go away," he said. "Shoo."
"This is what you get for thirty-five dollars," the lady said.
"…" Julian peered closer. "Laura? The hell?"
She smiled at him, then spat something in the palm of her hand, a metal object, vaguely like a whistle. "I need to find a bathroom. I need to vomit and
wash the latex off. I hate, hate, hate jobs I have to dress up old for." Her normal voice.
Julian stood up and followed her into Dr. Garrison's building—and nearly into the bathroom (before he remembered the whole women's/men's room concept),
curious as a cat.
Laura emerged five minutes later, looking like her usual self—red lips, slanted and lined eyes, perfect hair (now with large curled ringlets). She looked like
she'd had a make-up team working on her (he considered the idea that she carried one in her bag, which was indeed around her shoulder and hip).
"Hi," she said. He leaned forward—she held out her hand. "I believe we agreed on thirty-five dollars, Mister Keller," she said seriously.
"Wha—how do you know my last name?"
Laura sighed impatiently. "Because Miss Frost called you that. In front of you. I'm surprised that you don't remember."
"I was distracted," he said, digging into his pocket. He smoothed out the crumpled bills, then laid them in her palm. "There you go. Forty. I found five
in my pants the other day. Glad I decided against that chocolate bar."
"Pfft." Laura wrinkled her nose, then handed the five back. "Save it, for when you really need it," she suggested. "We agreed on thirty-five, and a flight.
And I believe you promised to 'outdo' a very talented man."
"Of course." He held out his arm, and she linked hers through it, in an old-fashioned manner that he liked; they left the building of their group therapy
sessions together.
…
"Wish I could buy you dinner," Julian said apologetically. They were in the park, under a big tree, half-sitting against the trunk and looking up at
the dark sky full of stars.
"Hmm," Laura said. "I have some crackers in my bag. And cheese."
Julian snorted. "The ironic thing is—like a year before this—I was an heir to a billion-dollar empire and an estate in Beverly Hills. Course, I fucked it
up by having the wrong friends."
"No, not your friends," Laura said. "You. You fuck things up. You don't know how to think practically."
"Wow, you just ignored the money. I'm impressed."
"No," Laura shook her head against his shoulder. "I knew. I am familiar with your family's company. I was involved in a transaction with a
Mr. William Keller, once, and I recognized him from your family picture. After I learned of your surname, I looked up the information,
to be sure. Then I remembered meeting you, once before."
"What?" Julian sat up. "Wait—woah, what kind of transaction?!"
Laura wrinkled her nose. "Strictly assassination, Mister Keller. I may be a lady of the night, and a trained killer, but I have morals. I would
never break up a family."
"…" Julian shifted. "I think…I'm not sure, but I think I counted three contradictions in that sentence."
"Pfft." Laura smiled slightly. "Don't you remember? I was in the big meeting room with the fireplace, and you came in, told me you wanted to
say 'hi'…then sprayed me with a small squirt gun. I was quite upset. I was trying to learn pertinent information for my mission, and you ruined
my outfit. I had to obtain another one."
"I was nine," Julian said. "That was you? Wait—Laura—you were killing when you were seven?"
"Mmm." She removed a Ziploc bag from her satchel and parted the seal. It did, indeed, contained crackers and cheese.
"Jesus." Julian looked at the grass and picked a strand. "I'm sorry about your dress. I thought it was, uh, pretty, but I didn't know how to
tell you I liked it."
"It's quite alright. Most men spray something at me when trying to show their appreciation of my garments—I'm glad the first time was just water."
"Hah." Julian took a cracker and nibbled on it.
"I wonder what time it is." Laura plucked her watch out of the grass, from amongst the rest of their discarded clothing. "Oh my goodness—it's eleven!
I've made barely above minimum wage!"
"Don't look at the time," Julian said, running his fingers up her arm.
"I have to," Laura said seriously. "I can't work for free."
Julian considered her. "You want to go for that fly now?"
She nodded.
...
That was fun!" Laura said as he set her down at the gate of the parking lot. Her cheeks were bright pink; he'd gone especially fast to show off. He was
all about making an impression—the more impressed she was, the more likely she was to let him have more of her time. She walked through the gate;
he leaned his elbows on the wire fence and grinned at her.
"So, am I better than Mr. Gentleman?" he asked.
"You're up there," Laura said. "I did enjoy that last bit."
"Before that?" he pressed. He wasn't sure if she was teasing or not—he didn't have a lot of experience, but he'd been told things—and he'd read things—and
he usually had a knack for doing things right the first time.
He was still a little anxious.
She touched his cheek, smiling, but did not say. He put his hand over hers and closed his eyes—and realized he'd been having a good time. He hadn't thought
about nasty things tonight.
"Laura—"
"I have to go. It was a good time, thank you." She hesitated, then leaned forward and kissed him again—he pulled her closer, reaching over the fence to feel
more. His fingers slid down her back and behind, then she caught them and stepped back. "Goodnight," she said, smiling her solemn little half-smile.
"Tomorrow?" he called after her as she walked to her bike. She held up her hand, but did not answer.
…
Julian opened the door of his room to see Cessily sitting on his bed, her arms folded. "Where have you been?" she demanded.
"…" he didn't see how he could ignore her, when she was right there. "I think a better question is, why did you break into my room?!" he demanded angrily. "I told
you, I don't want to talk to you guys!"
"It's her, isn't it?" Cessily glowered. "That—that girl. You were out with her again—paying her for—ugh! I can't believe you, Julian…what happened to you?!"
Julian paused.
"No, Cess. It's not her. It's you, all of you. You just keep believing its going to get better, you sit here, waiting for the next attack. I got told—by the therapist you
demanded I see—that there is nothing more pathetic than a man that won't help himself. What does that say about you?"
Cessily stared at him. "Be careful! You sound like—"
Julian pointed at the poster. "Like Magneto? Maybe he was right, Cess. Maybe going down fighting is better, if we have to go down at all."
"Julian—please—" Cessily sounded desperate. "You're smart. We all love you, we know you're not bad—you have a good heart, and you're hurt. It was your best friend
that died—I totally get that—but you stopped talking to me…being afraid of dying doesn't mean you should be afraid of living!"
"I don't want to discuss this anymore," Julian said, his arms folded.
"Did she—did she make you cut your hair?" Cessily asked hesitantly.
"…" He paused. "No."
"It looks better. I like it."
"I did it because she likes it, and she's the most amazing person I've ever met," he said. "That good enough for you?"
"Yes," Cessily said. "Will you—will you introduce me to her? Properly?" She paused. "I don't know what to think—she told me you paid her for—"
"I didn't want to," he mumbled, looking away. "She's entirely motivated by money. Okay, she's crazy, but—still—"
Cessily smiled sadly. "It's okay," she said. "I'm getting used to crazy people."
"Thanks," Julian said. He pulled off his jacket and hung it on the hook beside the doorframe. "You can meet her if you've got thirty-five dollars.
That's the best rate I've got off her yet. I had to bargain to make her help us during the last attack."
"I've got a gift card to Red Lobster," Cessily said. "For fifty bucks. I got it for my birthday from dad, but I never used it—he forgets I can't eat
anymore. Would that work, a free dinner?"
"Probably," Julian said. He sighed. "I think I have to get a job."
"You must really like her," Cessily commented.
"Maybe. I dunno. It's something else entirely." He paused. Cessily was still staring at him, and he knew what she was thinking.
"Relax. She has a healing factor," he said.
