Not much to add, expect that this chapter's rated T. Definitely. Enjoy : )
Chapter 21 - On the Road, Part II
A couple of hours later they're still on the road and en route to Johnstown. Among everything, there's determination on Jack's face; resignation to do what needs to be done. She opens her phone to call Viv for any new development, but it rings before she has the time to hit speed dial.
"Danny," she informs Jack when she sees the number.
His voice is rapid, excited, as he informs her of their latest discovery. A definite break in the case: they found Irina's whereabouts, called in SWAT… Samantha listens, then turns to Jack. "They found her hideout." Pulse quickening, she explains, "It was a basement in Southern Harlem, not far from the Park. They had two different witnesses who saw a woman matching her description around the block."
Worried, Jack wonders, "What did they find?"
"Gags, ropes, an empty bottle of Mogadon pills. Forensics team is still collecting evidence." Pausing, she adds, "Of course, no Irina. She obviously left the place yesterday or even before that. They also found gas drums. No wonder we had no luck with the gas stations: she was home-refueling."
"Good," he nods. "That's great. Irina won't have a place to stay anymore." He slows the car. Checking the numbers of the houses that all look the same, he parks in front of a low green fence. The mailbox reads Anderson family.
o o § o o
"He has it all figured out." Behind her blatant concern at the situation, Steven' mother beams with unmistakable pride. "He's going to serve his six remaining months and then he's going to get married. He's planning on taking Cassie to Hawaii for their honeymoon. I think he's been saving all year for that."
Taking out her notepad, Samantha asks for the needed information on Steven's future wife, only to find out that she's currently studying in Virginia.
"Do you have her address and phone number, Mrs Anderson?"
"I already told the police when they were here…"
"I know. I just need to double-check."
Samantha receives a weak nod, and Mrs Anderson heads upstairs while her husband goes for some coffee. Feeling ill-at-ease left alone in the middle of their vast living room, Samantha walks to Jack who stands beside the wall, his eyes on a number of family pictures. There's something about Steven's smiling face that pulls at her heart. Smiling kids do that to her, but Steven in particular. For some… unfathomable reason.
"What do you think?"
"They would've made a nice couple," she whispers, realizing too late that she used the past tense. It feels like she's already given up on Steven, and she's ashamed of it.
She sees a muscle in his jaw twitch, then he says in an undertone, "Hawaii, uh?"
Following his eyes, she sees Steven and Cassie on one of the photographs, and imagines them casually leaning against each other on a sandy beach. White sand… cloudless sky… surfers… palm trees. Lots of palm trees. Her throat feels tight. "Ever been there?"
He shakes his head. "No. Although it must have been on the list of places to visit sometime in the last decade," he smirks. "You?"
"No," she cracks a smile. "My boss tends to send me to cold, rainy cities for business. Sort of like… Pittsburgh and Cleveland. When you find a beach in any of those places, let me know."
"It's a pity I could never take you to Hawaii," he says in a light tone.
She wants to keep it light too, but something about his playful tone feels wrong, and she averts her eyes. These comments… they feel right but also carry another sad, painful reminder of what they'll never have.
Steven's mother reappears and his father joins them a couple of minutes later.
"He's twenty-two," Mrs. Anderson starts firmly, as if the two minutes she spent upstairs gave her a new purpose, a new faith. "He's twenty-two and he's getting married."
Twenty-two…
Samantha blinks, not liking where her thoughts are going.
"He's a great kid… I mean he doesn't drink or do drugs and− you don't think anything badhappened to him, do you?"
Before any of them can say something, Jack's phone rings.
"Excuse me," he says politely. Rising, he walks toward the door and stops only when he's out of earshot. Meanwhile, Mrs Anderson hands Samantha the address. "Thank you, we'll check it out," she assures. From where she sits, she can see Jack suddenly blanch. When he walks back to them, he closes his phone slowly, making sure Steven's parents are on the couch before he takes a seat, facing them.
Before he speaks, before he can even make a sound, Steven's mother lets out a shriek. She already it can only mean one thing.
"Mrs Anderson…" Jack's voice trails away into nothingness. There's really nothing else you can say in this case.
Sam leans back against her chair, shutting her eyes. Damn it. Like she needed to hear that. Like she needed to be there to face more screams and tears and−
Silence. A numb, horrified silence.
"Can we− can we see him? I− I need to see him."
Speaking quietly, Jack nods. "I'll have an agent take you to the airport and we'll arrange transportation to New York."
The next fifteen minutes pass in a daze. She quickly makes a phone call as Jack tries to explain as gently as he can manage what happened to Steven. He fumbles with words, and she brushes her hand against his arm imperceptibly when he gets to the point where he has to explain that no, it wasn't Steven's fault, yes, it was random… no, you couldn't predict it, yes, if maybe Steven had waited a day to play baseball−
A knock on the door startles her and she goes to open it, finding a couple of local agents waiting, probably the same ones that were here three hours ago to fill in the preliminary reports on Steven's disappearance. Samantha steps outside and explains the situation, how Mr. and Mrs. Anderson need to be taken to the airport and board the first plane to New York.
"Agent Spade?"
Steven Anderson's tear-streaked father looks at her in the eyes as she guides him outside. "He was twenty-two," he says, his eyes so frighteningly lost. "This shouldn't have happened to him."
She swallows the sour taste in her mouth and forces her lips apart. "No, it shouldn't have."
o o § o o
It all falls together horribly, like the pieces of a macabre puzzle. Clearly, Irina Connelly was back in New York when they were driving between Lancaster and Johnstown, trying to figure out where she was headed next.
"I was twenty-two."
The night is silent, the obscurity outside unwelcoming. He didn't expect her to talk. "What?"
She lets a moment go by, lets a couple of dark intersection signs pass before she continues. "You asked me a long time ago what age I was when I got married." Her lips tremble, her voice catches. "I was twenty-two, Jack. Just like Steven."
Reaching aside, he briefly squeezes her hand on the wheel before retrieving his arm. "It's all right."
She wants to tell him, no, it won't, it's all wrong.
"You should let me take over."
She takes the first exit, steps out when she's stopped the car and stretches her legs. He walks around the car and leans against it, his eyes lost in the distance, like he's toying with an idea. "It's another two-and-a-half hours to New York."
She doesn't answer. Almost three hours. Then what? Her empty apartment. She'll have to settle back in. Take a shower. Face the silence, slip under cool bed sheets and maybe… try not to remember the past few days.
"We're not far from the nearest city," she states.
He speaks carefully. "Motel?"
Seeing her nod slowly, he shuts his eyes, seemingly glad that they're in agreement. "I'll, uh, I'll just make a phone call."
She knows exactly who he's calling and it's not like she's eager to hear that conversation. "I'll leave Viv a message to tell her we won't be in the office until mid-morning tomorrow."
He walks away and she's back in the passenger seat when he reappears and watches her looking at the night with the door open. She sits in the wind and the bitter cold, listening as the winter angels sing in the snow. And her thoughts… her thoughts drift to a mother and a father who hear those same angels weeping and carrying away the memory of their son. So she stares at shooting stars that look like sparkles in the night, and sees only the broken heavens.
And she whispers his name. "Jack."
He hesitates with his elbow on top of the door, knowing that's not her usual tone; and for a moment he stands there, leaning against the frame of the car, eyes dark and face half plunged in the darkness. He wants to speak, but the words elude him. It's late, Sam. It's cold, Sam. It's dark and I wish I could−
He closes her door and walks around the car, starting the engine in silence. It seems to be hours before he stops and parks on a half-empty parking lit only by the occasional headlamp, yet it must have been no more than a few minutes.
When she doesn't move from the passenger's seat, he walks around the car and opens her door. "You, uh… you want to wait in the car?"
She shakes her head and steps out, even if it's still dark and it's still cold. It's not like she could bear to wait again. The lobby is comprised only of a small desk and a locked panel of keys, and two or three minutes pass before the owner finally shows up.
"Sorry," he apologizes quickly. "How can I help you?"
"You have vacancy?"
The man observes them both for a moment, and Sam figures he must be trying to determine if they're colleagues or friends, since it must be obvious they're not husband and wife. It must be obvious that they're a mess, too. "Yeah," he finally nods. He grabs an old, tattered registry and Sam distantly wonders if he's heard of computers.
"Where are you guys from?"
The guy looks compassionate, like he's bored, and Sam feels like he deserves at least a courteous answer. "We're headed to New York, but it's a long drive from Johnstown. We could use some rest."
The owner nods sympathetically, with an understanding smile that seems to mean, it looks like you could indeed use the rest. "How long are you planning on staying?"
"Just the night," Jack answers curtly.
The owner asks for Jack's name. He scribbles it on that old registry of his and looks up at them both before asking casually, "One or two rooms?"
Her lips part; she's about to reply with the obvious when Jack answers, "One."
Immediately, she turns to meet his eyes. And he has that look… the one that takes her breath away.
He hands over cash and he's presented with a key in return, and she's still rooted on the spot when he touches her arm slightly and brings her back to reality. The walk across the parking lot is short and she follows him in a daze, still unsure of what just happened. They stand face to face for a moment in front of the door, looking at each other. They've never… hesitated like that before. But then again they haven't… they haven't been alone so far from New York in a long time.
The key turns in the lock; he holds the door for her to enter and she brushes past him on her way in, dropping her bag on the table while he removes his shoes. The room isn't different from the ones she's entered in the past, the curtains drawn and the queen bed facing a TV waiting to be turned on.
She thinks back to the event of the day and feels her eyes blurring, a tear falling from the corner of her eye. At this point, she doesn't care if Jack notices.
"Sam…" he says in a soothing voice.
Her eyes stop on his untied shoes, his loosened tie, the hollow look in his eyes. She thinks of all the reasons why they shouldn't be doing this. And all the reasons why they should. She wants to speak, but what could she possibly say? This is wrong, Jack. This isn't going to solve anything, Jack.
I want this, Jack.
"Tomorrow we'll have to account for−"
"Let's worry about tomorrow, tomorrow."
She nods and walks to him, slides an arm around his waist wordlessly and leans her head against his shoulder. God, how she wishes she could make the emptiness go away tonight.
He lets his arm drop to his side and finds her eyes. Less than a second passes before his hand travels upwards and touches her cheek. He slowly leans forward and she can feel his breath on her jaw and it's too late to move away. He kisses her gently, and she welcomes the sudden feel of his mouth on hers, his warm, soft lips moving in unison with hers. It's not right, it's not going to change a thing and not going to bring Steven back, but she kisses him anyway.
He pulls back slightly, runs a hand tenderly along the curve of her neck. "Sam?"
"Yeah?"
He hesitates. "Nothing."
Their lips meet again, it's soft and her stomach flips, just the way it always does with him. She doesn't know what to say, doesn't know what to think except that this feels good and she never wants it to stop. Her hands slide along his shirt as he pulls her tightly to him. She brings her lips to his neck, tastes the soft flesh under his chin and he remains still as she makes her way lower. He tastes like Jack; he smells like in her dreams, feels like that one tangible peace of reality she can hold on to in this instant. After a few seconds of silence, broken only by a few sharp intakes of breath, she moves her hands down his shirt and starts working on the buttons, undoing them one by one.
She's done this before. With men she never loved, with one she thought she might, and with men she conveniently forgot. She forgot the way they whispered her name and were gone, forgot who they came as and who they left as and who they were in between.
Except one. She forgot to forget Jack for the simple reason that she can't forget how it feels to do exactly what she's doing to him right now.
He says nothing as she trails paths along his shoulders, across his chest; he doesn't move, doesn't seem to be daring to blink, but she can feel his heartbeat increasing with each passing second. She moves her way back upwards, lips brushing against warm skin until she finds the curve of his neck. As her tongue teases his skin, his eyes slip shut, and only a small breath escapes his lips, stifled as he tries to maintain some amount of control.
"Samantha?"
She looks up into his eyes.
"I, uh," he draws in a breath. "I missed you."
His hands are on her waist now and all she can muster is a quiet moan against his lips.
"I really…" he says, his voice raw, "Really missed you."
God, how she misses him too. She misses him now. All the time. She'll always miss him. But this, she thinks− this is the worse way to miss him. To know he's right here, with her, knowing he's not hers to have. Knowing he never was.
Their lips fuse, claiming each other's mouths again, readjusting themselves to the feel of each other, the unique taste of one another. This is all that matters for the moment; the taste of his lips, his tongue moving against hers, his hands exploring, rediscovering. His lips brush across her throat, drawing patterns in a similar way as she just did across his. Her head falls backwards, until her hands finally grip his open shirt and pull it off him, needing to feel him, all of him, without the material between them.
His shirt falls to the floor, inducing a small gasp, and he shivers slightly, cold air meeting warm skin.
"Sorry," she mutters, but somehow she isn't sorry at all. Isn't sorry that he's with her tonight, isn't sorry when she feels him undressing her deftly, the pace slow and yet sustaining a degree of urgency that neither can ignore. Her lips ache to kiss him again, to taste him the way she's tasted him before− lips on lips, tongues gently prodding each other's mouth, his breath mingling with hers… and his hands, usually so out of reach, now roaming over her body…
Tonight it feels like… they've found each other again. She brushes her fingers over his cheek. Jack,she wants to tell him, Jack, I'm not sorry. Not about this. Not ever.
tbc…