Seriously ya'll, I'm trying the best I can with what I got. Until my laptop is either fixed, or I get a new one, this sluggish, crappiness is what's gonna happen. That's really the main problem, that and lack of interest with schoolwork and friends and all the new fall shows starting.

Plus, Halloween is coming and that's, like, MY day. No one else's mine.

So yeah, I'm sorry, but I'm doing the best I can.

Please just calm yo selves, watch some funny vines, and listen to Lorde and Passion Pit on repeat. Like I do. All day. Everyday.

December 24th 2013

Christine's Pov

A lot of people spend the day before Christmas in different ways—tying loose ends with presents, frantically wrapping, cooking a feast for the next day, or cleaning up their own little Santa's workshop.

I could have been at home, waiting for Rem to start her day so I could help her make gingerbread men and form a miniature gingerbread army like I had every Christmas.

But, nope. No normal holiday cheer for Christine. Because she decided to drag her ass out of bed at seven in the morning on her winter break and visit the guy who wanted to strangle her in the jail where he was currently rotting on his ass.

And apparently she decided to use third person like some stupid character from a sitcom.

I sighed, burrowing further into my thick coat as I trudged down the empty streets. The city buses had started at six, and I had been able to make the seven thirty pick-up so a bus could spit me out in the middle of downtown, halfway to where I wanted to be.

As I walked, there was a sweet, delicious smell in the air that made my stomach growl. Okay, so maybe braving this journey on an empty stomach hadn't been the brightest idea, but I also got dressed in the dark and was going to visit my potential murderer for Christ's sakes.

Today wasn't exactly my day for bright ideas.

This realization didn't stop me from munching a delicious pastry that resembled something like a sticky bun (except better and stickier) as I rode a state border bus all the way until two blocks from the police department.

I tipped the driver with a nod and two dollar bills, hopping off and digging my poorly wiped hands into my pockets, marching on and really wishing I had ordered a peppermint hot chocolate with the sticky great like the counter lady had suggested.

Mission Creek's police department was a building separate from their cement block of holding cells. I walked into the PD office first, turning to see a bony guy with gel-soaked hair slicked back and his pale face sprouting with patches of pimples sitting behind the secretary desk in front of the computer with raccoon eyes.

"Hi, I'm here to visit cell 82," I said, mustering up as much politeness even in my tired state.

The guy didn't seem to be that nice, turning to survey me with an expression that told me he could care less about what I was here for.

"Sign your name here; cross it off as you leave," he deadpanned, sliding a clipboard to me. I scribbled my name out with a chained pen and made my way to the back of the PD office to a door clearly marked Holding Cell Enterance.

The building was a long, narrow hallway with cells cut out of them, maybe 5 yards wide and thick, rusty bars like cages to keep the people in ruddy orange jumpsuits sealed in.

A sharp right after the last cell led into a stubbed hall, a room on either side. The door on the left was wide open, a cramped office tidily kept together with a guy snoring away, his belt buckle seeming to move against his body in an agonized way, like it was about to burst and have his stomach explode over the top of his pants.

I cringed a the picture, feeling the kinda-of-a-sticky-bun and hot chocolate churn in my stomach. I lightly pressed my fingers to my stomach, trying to keep my nerve—if I lost it, there would be a tidal wave of vomit all over this hall, which was probably the only thing that could make this place any more unappealing.

The door to the right was spacious and empty except for a metal table with a chair on either side. the interrogation room.

In maybe ten minutes I would be locked in there with the crazy manic who tried to strangled me in my sleep, with only fat, unusually sweaty men in ugly police uniforms as my body guard and source of protection.

Never again was I going to follow my instincts at five in the morning.

I nodded at a guard stationed at the door, tall and broad-shouldered, with dark skin and a thick soul patch.

"Hi, can you point me to cell 82?"

He gave a grunt and began leading down a dimly lit hallway with swinging lights hanging that flickered, threatening to blink out and send us into darkness at any moment, wihtout warning.

I shuddered at the thought. There I was, a small girl only 110 pounds and standing at 5"4, in building full of criminals that wouldn't think twice about killing, me with an untrusty light source and a shaky nerve that could me at any moment.

What the hell was I thinking?

But it was too late to turn around as the guard stop, making me stumble to a halt.

"Aye, rich boy, you have a visitor!"

A greasy head of blonde hair that shined sickly in the eerie lighting looked up, his eyes holding a venomous sparkle to them. Once, I had been scared of leaving the love of my life for that sparkle, a kind so disguised and sickly that now made me feel my hot chocolate and maybe-a-better-kind-of-sticky-bun chrun with the bile in my stomach and lurch into the back of my throat.

Callan stood, the cuffs around his wrists and ankles rattling like the rusty chains that one would see in the cellar of a horror film. His face was twisted into a horrible sneer as the guard unlocked his bar-slash-door and guided him in front of me with a strong, jerky grip on his shoulders.

Minutes later of me praying my safety to God and swallowing large quanities of that were gathering in my mouth, we were seated across from each other in the interrogation room, two guards respectively waiting outside after assuring me several times that the camera and audio systems that were set up throughout the rooms were constantly running.

I faked a smile at the guard as he closed the door, trying not to show that their words didn't bring me the amount of comfort I had hoped they would.

"So," Callan gave in a lazy drawl, smiling at me so wolfishly that it elected a shudder to run down my spine, "here we are, just you and me."

"Yeah, you, me, a security system, and four guards that will surely not hesitate to kick your ass," I bit back, my tone empty and harsh, even to my ears. I tried to hide my surprise at my quick reaction; it must be the caffeine that had been packed into that hot cocoa. Damn, that had been some good hot cocoa.

Huh, sitting with the guy that wanted to kill me and instead of wishing for a butcher knife, I was wishing for a cup of peppermint hot chocolate.

I guess I could pour it on him; you know, if it was scalding.

But then that would just be a waste of delicious hot cocoa.

"Why did you do it?" I aske abruptly, sitting up straighter and fixing my coldest glare on him.

Callan gave a dark chuckle. "I've done a lot of things."

"You mean to imply that you break into girls' houses and try to kill them on a weekly basis?" I snapped sarcastically.

"I was told to," he deadpanned, eyes blank.

I squinted. James told him to, and that was the only excuse he needed? All someone had to do was say the word and he would be that willing to kill me? Highly doubtful.

"And?" I prompted, rolling my eyes. The cocoa may have boosted my bitch factor, but nothing could improve the low patience I had—especially for jackasses. In ugly orange jumpsuits.

The fear had offically left my system. Sure, he may be a potential murderer, but he was also an annoying prick who couldn't risk anything. I was advancedly trained with sharp reflexes after all.

"And what? I don't like you; I wasn't that far off from doing it myself, but I wasn't going to oppose when someone asked."

I pursed my lips, giving him a sour look. He was hiding something; call it a hunch, but I seemed to have developed a radar for liars over the last—damn, almost two years.

I guess you kind of forget how quickly time flies when you're life's on the line nearly 24/7.

Meh, you get used to it.

"You're hiding something," I declared. I stood, slamming my palms flat against the surface of the table and fixing him with the evilest glare I could muster at eight in the morning. Oooh, if only I had gotten my normal twelve hours of sleep, he would be so dead right now. "And I wanna know what."

He snarled at me, and his fists clenched, but he remained sitting. Maybe he was afraid of alerting whoever was watching us at the moment, maybe being surrounded by a bunch of pierced, tattooed baddies had made him a whimp.

Probably the former.

"Please, you were never that good of an actor," I snarled.

Something in his eyes snapped.

Okay, so you know that new found wave of bitterness and negativity I found from my hot cocoa. Yeah, well, it kind of turned into a little stream of fear tinkle that I fought to hold in as he stalked over to my side of the table, slamming me up against the nearest wall.

I tried to subtly look up at the camera in the corner across from me. Wasn't he putting his hands on me causing some sort of alarm?

I swear to God, if I find out some doughnut-stained, coffee-stinking guard with a beer gut was napping in a chair in the control room, I was going to need a cell for murdering an idiot.

"You think I couldn't have been faster than that?" Callan's breath was disgusting, making me cringe my face as much as I could away from him. They should really allow their prisoners to keep up on their dental hygeine. "You think that I couldn't beaten that little pipsqueak and just killed you without thought? You shoul be lucky I was so generous."

Then he crash his lips on to mine. Tongue and all.

I crawled back in to bed at ten in the morning, pulling myself through my bedroom window and face-planting on my bed, relishing in the darkness provided by my pillow.

I could still feel the pressure of his mouth on mine, the weight of his tongue in my mouth, pushing and exploring until the same guard from earlier came in and pried him off me, roughly pulling him out of the room and back to his cell.

This was not something that needed to be shared with Chase, I decided. The entire adventure to a room full of criminals and lazy guards with my lack of as much was just an adventure to keep to myself, not for anyone else's ears.

Besides, it was Christmas. I would be a bitch to ruin that good feeling everyone.

For a couple hours I just laid in bed and moped about my stupid morning choices, vowing never again I would get up before noon on a vacation day and follow my gut, no matter how stupid and tempting of an idea it may be.

Ugh, the hot cocoa and something-like-a-sticky-bun-but-better-in-every-po ssible-way did not taste as good coming up as it did going down.

So, yes, this is a short chapter, but I promise to be working really hard on the next one. Mostly because I really love writing about Christmas.

Anyway, the next chapter will probably be a part of another writing haul I want to do throughout next weekend, which may or may not also include my Wattpad account.

I don't want to promise anything to anyone, but the haul may include a new one-shot. I don't know yet.

On a completely unrelated not, has anyone seen Hostages and loved it as much as I have. Oh man, did my brain brew at some story ideas when it came on. And Mateus as Jake...I need a moment...