I know it has been awhile since I updated this story. Things have been pretty rough for me. A chronic condition I've been struggling to deal with for the last few years has come back with a vengeance. The meds aren't working that well either. I've been too sick and extremely depressed since most activities I've taken for granted I either can't do at all or have to severely limit. As a result I'm not going to give any timelines for my next update. All I can say is I hope it will be a lot sooner then this release took.
Thank you to everyone who has alerted this story. And a HUGE thanks to those who review! Those really make me smile! So please push the button on this chapter too!
If you like WoWP and are looking for something different check out my other story and drop me a message or review. I'd love to know what you think!
Chapter 10
The limousine is one of the larger models. While the width isn't impressive, and the length isn't that much beyond what could be considered ordinary for a stretch vehicle. The exterior too is a typical drab black, but the interior is luxurious. Mark may be known for being a diabolical tyrant, but he does understand the idea of lavish living. All of the cars in his fleet are highly specialized. Every single one, from the freight trucks, to the company cars, each is embellished with the latest technologies needed to best accomplish they're given duties. In this case, showing off the predominant figures inside by investing perverse sums of money to ensure that anything and everything is accessible. Large screen televisions, monitors, computers, surround sound, couches, refrigerators, and have all somehow found a happy home. And that is only the limousine. If they are categorized as extravagant then the tour buses, and private planes are mobile palaces.
The solitary basis Mitchie, and Alex are in the present vehicle, and not something larger because their destination is the airport. There a private jet is fully prepared and at the terminal. Of course none of this matters to Alex in the least. She is unhappily lying across one of the couches. Noise canceling headphones dutifully adorn her head. Her eyes are angrily glued to a frequently flickering television screen whose channels change every second or two.
Mitchie is doing the same having long given up trying to reason with the other girl. Her numerous attempts to resolve the lingering animosity failing. Alex refuses to even offer the simple courtesy of looking at Mitchie when she talks. Seconds thereafter the headphones cover her ears, and completely muffle whatever words are spoken. The action thoroughly confuses, and hurts Mitchie, and the reason is not simply that she is being shut out. The animosity is a gesture that strikes within the core of her personality. The conflicts with her father allow Mitchie to see past the psychological masks Alex dons to defend the inner core of sanctum. Due to this first hand insight, being the observer to another struggling through the same challenges is heartbreaking. Infinitely complicating matters is that unlike the admittedly few people she has seen wearing such disguises none are continually nearby. Those people are strangers. At worst Alex is a roommate, at best a friend. That automatically doubles the incentive to help; a trait that has developed long ago, and remains integral to her spirit.
In a similar fashion the hostility Alex demonstrates is a trait she too has learned to utilize. In her former forgotten life as a carefree teen this misunderstood, unrestrained energy come to light in the countless pranks, devious jokes, and strategic plans for her own personal gain. While many individuals have labeled the middle Russo many things, from deviant, to stupid, to fiendish, to sister, to friend, at heart though is a highly empathic, intense, curious girl. What Mark represents is a threat not just to her sanity, but also to her enigmatic heart, the attributes Alex embraces uniquely as her own are all under attack. Alex is on the verge of being broken. Her personality is hanging in the balance, tilting tantalizingly close between the light, and dark.
The shadows are a scary place indeed to dwell. Once one is given a sample of the lifestyle seldom few are able to escape, the labyrinth of the overwhelming destruction of all those qualities that represent the best of humankind. In this maze of anguish the darkness is forever, and rays of hope exceedingly rare. Conceptually on some level of sub-consciousness Alex is more aware of all of these facets than even Mitchie. The trouble is just that, the information remains imprisoned in an area of her brain that has very low levels of influence. A hint here or there, a nudge or push on this topic or that. Nothing of major importance ever leaves this level of awareness.
The tragedy in the entire situation is that Alex likely does not fathom the allusions for her future. She is too focused on the constant daily torments. Day after day they whittle, and chip away at her resolve until nothing is left, but an automaton devoid of expression, incapable of affection, and no perception of kindness. She has remained under Mark's rule for far too long. His attacks are no longer being easily fended off. Instead they frequently penetrate battered walls, and tired, weakened resistance. Out of sheer necessity Alex is withdrawing into an impenetrable keep. One that once sealed is permanent, blocking not only all hostiles, but also allies and friends alike.
Mitchie may be the antithesis of Mark but to Alex the risk is much too great. Alex cannot allow Mitchie to be knowledgeable about her past. To begin to address one demon is to open Pandora's box. All of the troubles of the past will merge with the present to create a storm of confusion, and radical change. Impossible to predict with no guarantee of the end results being positive, Alex refuses to take the miniscule chance of something so dramatic going so tragically wrong. She is far more comfortable living in the Hell that she knows rather than a new, strange one that is void of all the commonalities that allow her pitiful existence to continue day, after day.
That is the reason neither girl speaks to one another during the entire trip to the airport. This continues all the way through the security checkpoints, and even on to the plane. The ride, much as it was in the vehicle remains largely quiet too. This may only partially be attributed to the bastard Mark having made the decision to tag along in the musician's compartment instead of up front. Aside from hushed pleasantries Mitchie, and Alex go out of their way to secretly avoid one another. Unfortunately the attempt does not go unrecognized.
Mark does not care why. He does not care how. He makes this conclusion based on the movement of Michie towards the bathroom, a trek that causes her to pass Alex's seat. Mitchie waves to the other girl and in exchange receives a dangerous glare. Not that he has any desire to interfere, much the contrary. He is, in a word, glad that the hostility between the two girls seems to be present. That is a facet that bodes well in his favor. As far as he is concerned the greater the conflict between the two of them the less trouble they will give to him in return. After all if they are so focused on each other that is less time to devise new schemes that give him migraines. Content that the two other are suffering and satisfied that all is well in his world he allows the constant hum of the plane engines to lull him into a deep slumber.
Eighteen-year-old Mark ran as fast as his legs could carry him. The sun decided to have never come out to play. The grey-black clouds are thick swirling torrents. Carried by the maddening winds that happily propel fat raindrops on to everything, soaking mansion, machine and man alike. That is why he was running now. Running into his house at full speed. The umbrella a mess of twisted steel fragments after the wind easily sundered the metal and thin protective fabric. Breathing hard he closed the door and tossed the useless item into the trash bin. Water poured off his clothing and hair on to the otherwise impeccable marble tiles.
"Mark. Get changed and meet me in the office." John, his father sternly said. The voice is one that Mark recognized as one that leaves no room for argument.
"Yes sir," he responded before heading off towards his bedroom already peeling off drenched clothing along the way. Quickly he used a towel to dry himself as best as he can before grabbing fresh jeans, and a shirt, putting them on before going to the office.
He knocked twice before automatically entering. His father is sitting at his huge desk. A piece of furniture designed to intimidate. For the most part it does as designed, but Mark was immune. He has been in here far too many times, known his father and how he operated and thought for him to be concerned about such pettiness. That is little consolation because it is readily obvious that he is in for quite a lecture. His father's eyes are blazing as Mark takes a seat.
"Your late." The statement is simple. Demanding a simple response.
"Yes." Mark shrugged. "Couldn't be helped."
"We shall see." He paused. "Care to explain what took you so long to return home? You were expected hours ago.
Crap! "I was held up. It couldn't be avoided." Mark's response is strong, his voice non-wavering.
"Hmm…. well you know I was keeping tabs on you boy."
Double crap! He could have chosen to maintain a neutral expression but that leaves him vulnerable. Instead he decided on outrage. "You were spying on me? Why? You don't even trust your son?"
"Why should I? You didn't do as you were told."
SHIT! How did he find out? That happened today! Mere hours beforehand! "I did the best I could! What more do you want?" Mark somehow avoided raising his voice.
"Tell me what you were supposed to do. Do it now so I can determine whether you made an honest mistake or are just too damn stupid to be of use."
Those words stung worse then any real injury. Mark physically winced in pain at the verbal assault but he doesn't let the anxiety show. "You put me in charge of the buyout operations for the vocal company Camp Songs.
He gestured obviously expecting more. "Keep going."
"You wanted me to acquire the company," he counted on his fingers starting with the thumb. "Dissolve the executive board," another finger, "and then shutter all of their operations." One more finger rises. "And lastly to fire all of their employees nationwide and to sell the remaining properties to the highest bidders at auction," the last raised digit he physically touched with the other hand.
"Good then you aren't stupid. How about explaining why you couldn't even accomplish this meagerly task?" John presented Mark with nothing but a gaze that reflected nothing but professionalism, patience and pure utter seriousness. His hands are devotedly clasped together upon the desk. Every mannerism was strictly routine and official. One might even think of him as the stereotypical executive suite that everyone despised. Unfortunately that isn't true. Not because the description doesn't fit but due to the fact his personality was just that. One that lived, breathed, and basked in corporate life.
Mark isn't easily intimidated but the stare his father was offering was not something he has ever quite gotten used too. That is, his father sizing him up in the blink of a second, identifying successes as readily as failures. This background originated from a proficiency at the stock market and skill at hostile takeovers. Both allowed John to have amassed quite a fortune. Mark despite coming from a wealthy, politically influential, and hugely successful line of businessman has little to his name.
His father was ruthless in his tutelage of his son. Demanding perfection, punishing anything less. This buyout was the latest in a long series of tests that began at age twelve. They are intended to question not only Mark's negotiating prowess but solidify the point that morality has no place within the business world. It was every man for himself in an arena that has no rules. The stare perturbed him when he was five as much as it did at ten and fifteen, and even still that hasn't changed. Unfortunately, his father was aware of this fact too and utilizes the tool with ruthless effectiveness. Mark's only redeeming quality is that he was John's son. Otherwise he would be considered a lowly lackey, a subordinate, beneath him not worthy of time or consideration.
All of this preparation was for the culmination of one single event. Mark following in his father's footsteps, propelling the family business forward into a new generation that combines brute corporate tactics, technology and talent in a way that ensures they are the best, untouchable by all others. That was how they arrived at their current disagreement.
"I did! I thought that the cost-to-gain ratio was too high so I decided against finalizing the deal." Mark defended. "It was my choice!"
"Yes of course it was your decision." John waved him off dismissively. "But that doesn't change you doing the wrong damn thing!"
Mark lost his temper. "What you wanted me to do was just plain wrong!"
John smirked. "Really? What did you find was so upsetting?"
"We were going to destroy their lives!" Mark exclaimed loudly. "They were a family orientated company! They treated their employees well. Everyone was paid above standards! You wanted to buy them out and ruin everything that they built!"
John laughed out loud. "You never stop amazing me boy. How ignorant and pathetic you are. What do you think capitalism means? What do you think being in business means?"
"It-"
"I wasn't asking for your opinion. Shut up and listen to me," John interrupted without care or pause. "You don't do what is 'nice' or 'right' for the poor saps who happen to suddenly find themselves in the unemployment line. All that matters to you is what it means to the bottom line. If you have to buy stockholder majority and then destroy a flourishing family run operation that has been running for decades so be it. Let them worry about how to feed their sad miserable families because god knows it won't be you. That is how the world works Mark. Get your head out your ass and get on board fast or I'll find someone else to do the job. Get it?"
"Yes sir." Mark sighed before standing. "I'm sorry. You're right of course. I'll… I'll work out something."
Damn kid. All he needed is the right tone of voice and scolding to set him straight. Nothing like a few minutes of time to make a lesson last a lifetime. "That's the spirit my boy!" John boisterously exclaimed. "This is business one-oh-one, take out your competitors before they pose much of a threat. We can't have their profit sharing and generous benefits package spreading now can we?" He leered down at Mark. "Now go make them an offer they can't refuse before tearing them a new one! I'm sure you'll make me proud!
"Yeah, no problem." Mark smiled now reassured by the words of advice. He then finds himself engulfed in a hug before being gently shoved out the door."
"And don't come back until you get the job done!"
Alex remains still too furious at Mark and lounges back in one of the armchairs. Her foul mood only increases in severity after her oh-so-lovable boss informs Mitchie and her that there isn't actually a concert for several days. Although the intention is never mentioned Alex fully knows that he is orchestrating such an obscene timetable strictly to keep an eye on the pair. The implications are quite extreme, but right now she isn't concerned with such matters.
Instead her gaze is laser sighted on the outside world. The plane is flying high enough so that puffy and whimsical clouds trail lazily below. The scene is picturesque. Light warm Caribbean blue with the soft tuffs of white splattered to generate a feeling of beauty, friendship, and tranquility. Any artist would be able to embrace the inspiration contained therein. Alex, as would any other does not miss the impact of such emotions either.
It is indicative of the hopeful, stunning enthusiasm that she will never experience. All of the creation that nature embellishes upon it's inhabitants, a privilege that each and every individual living organism is capable of enjoying save for the demon known as Alex Russo, the reject, the rebel, the gifted child who followed her dreams only to see her passion tear her life apart. The pain returns in a rush, one emotion cascades into the next. Pain leads to sadness that leads to guilt, and feeding off the agony Alex begins to write. The first words arrive on paper in a strangled torrent of syllables that makes no sense, but soon she starts to find sanity within the ink.
A highly disappointed and frustrated Michie storms into one of the small private cabins. They are designed primarily for sleeping but that doesn't matter to her. The enclosure offers soundproof privacy and that is what she is seeking. Quickly she picks up the phone and dials Caitlyn's number.
Caitlyn you had better answer! Please answer! Michie silently pleads as the ring indicator sounds for the third time. The seconds tick by and each passing moment so does Mitchie's desire for conversation. She futilely tried with Alex but the other girl rebuked each attempt with a few words. Or in the case of the latest attempt refused to acknowledge her existence.
Tears prickle at the corners of her eyes in remembrance. She is about to place the receiver back into its cradle when unexpectedly there is a response.
"Hello?" The voice is weary, breathing hard into the speaker from having had to run to the noisy device to answer it in time.
Mitchie recognizes it instantly to be Caitlyn as relief floods through her body. "Caitlyn!" She squeals loudly, exuberance obvious despite her friend being on the other side of the country.
Instantly Caitlyn sounds energized. Whatever traces of exhaustion disappearing in a flash. "Michie! How goes it? I miss you!"
Suddenly feeling a bit more relaxed that she has her best friend Mitchie stops pacing back and forth and sits down on the bed. "I know! I wish we could! But I'm on a plane to New York right now." She could almost picture the pouting expression on her friends face as the words register. "What took you so long to pick up? I was about to hang up!
Giggling fills Mitchie's ear. "Since when am I not allowed to take a shower?" Caitlyn responds as she leans back on her bed. One fluffy towel wrapped around her body while another adorns her head.
"When you don't answer your phone Gellar!"
"No fair!" Caitlyn pouts. I like being clean thank you very much. Besides! I'm not even dressed yet. That should count for something!"
"Hot!" A rather provocative picture enters Mitchie's mind causing her to smile wryly. "So, when do I get pictures?"
Caitlyn's giggling grows louder. "You don't get any! That's what happens when certain people," she adds emphasis to 'people' for dramatic effect, "don't call their best friend for days on end!"
"That's not fair!" Mitchie gripes. "It isn't like I was going to sell them to the highest bidder or something! I was just gonna keep them as… as… a keepsake!"
"You sure it isn't because you want to fantasize about my hot-ass body?" Caitlyn responds with a smile as she sticks a nearby pillow underneath her head while staring up at the ceiling.
"Aww you discovered my master plan." Mitchie pouts. "No fair!"
"That's what you get for trying to deceive your best friend!"
"Yeah, I suppose that is true." The tone is uncharacteristically subdued and defeated.
"Mitchie? What's wrong?" Caitlyn detects the subtle intonation change in Mitchie's voice. The change happens for the briefest of moments but between the syllables she is able to detect the hints of doubt and sadness.
Crap! "Nothing is wrong Cay." She sighs despairingly. The last thing Mitchie wants to do is talk about her troubles. All she really desires is to have a great conversation with her best friend. "Don't worry about it. I'm sure you have other things to worry about. I'll be fine"
"Uh huh." All traces of playfulness are gone. Caitlyn is nothing but seriousness. "I don't have anything to be concerned about except my friend being on a plane to New York, calling me at twenty-thousand-something-feet. This same girl also happens to have not called since she first got her gig." She says matter-of-factly. "You better start talking Mitchie because like it or not I do care and do worry."
"Cay." Mitchie pauses as the anxiety of the past few hours catches up to her in a rush. "I… I don't know what to do." The emotions cascade in a rush and burst forward as a sob escapes her throat.
What happened to her? What could make her so upset? Caitlyn's sudden intact of breath indicative that she heard everything, she sitting upright on her bed out of concern. The sobs assaulting her eardrums like arrows to her heart. "Mitchie! Mitchie honey, please calm down! Take a few deep breaths and tell me everything!"
Several long moments pass as Mitchie heeds the advice. Though she is able to calm the cries hot tears still freely flow down her cheeks as the volcano of emotions erupts in a fury. "Alex hates me Cay!"
How can someone hate Mitchie? She is one of the most sensitive, caring people I know. "I'm sure that isn't true Mitchie." Caitlyn's calm voice reassures. "But you are going to have to back up. Who is Alex?"
"Who is Alex? What kind of question-" Mitchie stops herself mid sentence. Caitlyn couldn't know about the singer. After all, she herself found out not that long ago. "Promise not to tell?"
"Promise. None of this will escape my lips. You know that."
Although Caitlyn can't see her reaction Mitchie lets the barest of smiles to grace her features. "Selena Gomez's name is Alex, Alex Russo."
Caitlyn is speechless. It takes a moment for her to respond and for a minute Mitchie isn't even sure she is still on the line. "Wow! Oh wow. I always assumed that was her real name."
"I did too Cay. You can't repeat that. Ever! I could get into big trouble for telling you that!" Mitchie says sternly.
"You know I won't M." Caitlyn asks genuinely curious. "What does she have to do with you though?"
Mitchie holds back the cries that threaten to emerge once again. "We got into an argument."
"Sounds like a bit more then just a simple fight."
Biting down on her lip Mitchie recounts her earlier fight when they were packing. At Caityln's insistence she also reveals how Mark mistreats them both. Caitlyn seems particularly energized at this revelation. She swears quite adamantly that she is going to cut open Mark's stomach, pull out his intestines and light them on fire all the while he is flayed alive working from the head down. That in particular makes Mitchie happy. She even laughs at her friend's outrage.
Caitlyn though is far more worried then she lets on. She is one of a very select few people who is privy to Mitchie's past. Numerous occasions saw a torn, battered and desperate Mitchie cling to her for understand and comfort. As a result she can't help but feel a bit protective. To think that Mitchie may be in a situation anywhere near as similar as that with her father makes her blood boil.
Thankfully though, Mitchie is oblivious to this fact – one benefits of a telephone being not seeing physical expressions - and is feeling much more content. She is on her stomach, phone clenched tightly to her ear as she kicks her feet back and forth.
"What do I do Cay? We can't ignore each other forever."
"No. You can't." Caitlyn is quiet as ponders various options. "However you can't force her to open up to you either as much as you may wish her to do so."
"But I can-" Mitchie starts.
"No." Caitlyn finishes her sentence for her. "You can't help her if she doesn't want it. Look I know you M. You are a very compassionate person and an excellent problem solver. But you can't force Alex into a situation she doesn't want."
The truth stings and as much as Mitchie wants Caitlyn's words to be otherwise she cannot deny that her friend is correct. "Then what do I do?"
"What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean Cay! Stop playing dumb!" Mitchie gripes while rubbing her forehead in thought. "What do I do with my feelings?" "I can't just shove them underneath a rug and pretend that they don't exist."
Caitlyn has to hold the phone away from her ear at the sudden barrage assaulting her eardrums. "Ok! Ok! You made your point!" Looking back she understands the outburst. It was a rather silly comment. "Why look at the situation as such a negative. Try to turn it all around."
Mitchie's eyes pop open in agitation. What is she talking about? Why can't I get a straightforward answer for ONCE!
Caitlyn seems to sense the confusion and responds before Mitchie is able to comment. "So far you haven't done anything but see all the problems. Try to redirect your emotions."
Why didn't I think about that? The solution is so simple excitement builds in her voice as she catches on. "You're talking about me writing a song!"
Caitlyn rolls her eyes knowingly. "No, not specifically but if that is what you want to do go for it!
For once in a seemingly long time Mitchie feels at peace. She has a plan and a way to express herself. The playful spirit is alive and burning again. Smiling deviously she decides that it is time to return the favor to Caitlyn for her wonderful suggestion. "Hey Cay?"
"Yeah M?" Caitlyn is relieved at the lack of tension in her friend's voice. It is way overdue. "What's up now?" Nervousness and reluctance in her fills her voice. Please Mitchie, please be ok. Not another problem.
"Why haven't you gotten dressed yet?"
"What are you talking about M?" Caitlyn bolts upright with a start. "I am too..." That is when she realizes in her surprise and haste her towel has come undone and is now pooled at her feet. "…Dressed."