Jack didn't know what time it was when he heard her groan but even through sleep, he was waiting. His eyes were slow to adjust as he lifted his head from his arm, his shoulder aching from his position on the floor as he rested on the couch cushion. She had curled up into a ball, wincing in pain, and her knees nudged his back.
She looked down at him in disbelief, her eyes unfocused and confused.
"Are you alright?" He looked her over; her coloring was pale and she was shivering.
She winced. "...I…I need to - get to the bathroom."
He stood and helped her off the couch – she wobbled, still groggy, and he lifted her gently. Honey and Mush were spooning on the couch, fast asleep...he didn't know where Spot, Race, and David were but he made sure to close the bathroom door behind them - the moment he set her on her feet, she lunged for the toilet. He held her hair back.
After a few minutes she rested her forehead on her arm, slung over the toilet. She was weak, shaking and sweating as she breathed heavily. He dropped her hair when she leaned back against the adjoining door to Mush and Race's room. There were low voices coming from the other side.
He stepped to the sink, took his water glass, and filled it.
"And that's why...we don't get drunk at work," she said facetiously. Her throat was raw and worn, her voice deep. The bathroom was dim in the faint glow of the orange night light over the vanity, and the sheen of sweat on her skin gleamed and soaked through her silk dress.
He passed the glass to her and her eyes flitted up to his face.
"Or at least...I try not to."
She watched him closely as he crouched in front of her a couple feet away. He didn't want to crowd her, but by the way the grogginess in her eyes dissolved into awareness, he wondered how she would process what had happened.
"You were drugged," he said, wishing he could offer her more comfort in his flat tone.
"I know," she snapped back, looking down at the glass in her hands. He could hear it in her voice – she was frustrated with herself for letting it happen. "I was a fucking idiot."
She downed the water and looked back at him curiously…cautiously.
Boots' warning from a couple hours ago echoed back to him:
They have your name, cowboy.
His fist clenched; was that what she was thinking about?
"Where's Honey?" she asked.
He rose and turned to the bathtub. "Asleep in the living room. She's alright." He motioned to the tub, "If ya want a bath, it was David's turn to clean the bathroom this week, and he's better at it. Towels in the closet here."
She didn't say anything.
Just leave, idiot.
He made for the door.
"What's your name?"
His hand froze on the doorknob. He turned back to her slowly and saw her standing and wobbling a little as she made for the vanity. She straightened, her eyes strong on his face as if conducting an interrogation.
He was, for a moment, relieved to have a chance to explain himself. But he saw the way her eyes watched him, perhaps mistrusted him.
"...your real name." she prodded.
She didn't sound angry - she was waiting for a specific answer.
He took a deep breath and put his hands in his pockets. "...it's John. John William Beck."
It sounded foreign on his tongue. He hadn't heard his legal name spoken aloud in some time, let alone his full name. His mother had called him John William when he was a baby, before she left...
He'd fought hard to leave that life behind him…easier said than done for the one that preceded it.
Recognition sparked in her tired eyes and she closed them, exhaling in...relief? But she turned to the vanity, her brow furrowing. "So they weren't lying to me."
He saw the pain of betrayal cross her expression in the mirror. She looked up at herself. Mascara was smudged around her eyes.
"They told me my -" she smiled bitterly "- 'boy toy'...is lying about who he is. I was so – beyond myself, beyond drunk…I'd already laughed at the GM when he told me I wasn't fit to dance, let alone walk. So I didn't think twice about laughing at them, too. Jazzi was sitting right next to him...next to Cage."
The hate in her voice was quiet but he heard it as if she had shouted it.
She bit her lip for a moment, biting something back. "They didn't like that," she smirked but it didn't touch her eyes. "I said, 'How could I be angry with someone for hiding who they are, when I've done the same?'"
Her laugh was dark as she put a hand over her eyes, tired and spent. "Jazzi was furious, I was too... That's when Honey came to get me out of there," she dropped her arm, her eyes remembering, sobering.
"I didn't see who did it, but it was in that last drink. If only I –"
She looked at him through the mirror and her eyes washed over him, chills rising on his skin. Disappointment and desire flickered over her face before she turned and busied herself with the sink, her hands shaking slightly as she lathered soap and washed her face. She rinsed and held her palms over her eyes for a long moment, breathing slowly.
She sighed and dropped her hands. "It was foolish no matter how you look at it. The only silver lining was waking up here."
She turned to him, her fresh face dripping and rosy. He was surprised to see her eyes glassy and heartbroken.
"Not many girls wake up somewhere safe," she whispered, emotion welling up behind her face.
His brow furrowed. Who she was thinking about?
She turned back to the mirror and leaned on her hands.
He could understand a vow, or wanting to avenge the people you love...he could understand a lot of things. Before the turn of the century he had been so blinded by his grief when she disappeared for good, he never realized he blindly threw away his life with the spiraling choices he made. Anything to numb the pain.
Standing there in that dress, she could've been at a charity event, a gala, an invite-only dinner with the wealthiest people in the city, the country... Instead, she had barely made it out of a nightclub with her life, her sweat staining the bodice of her gown.
I have to try, she had said.
Despite the pull he felt, bitter anger was stoked inside him. He turned for the door again.
"You weren't supposed to happen."
He looked at her against his will, wondering at her words…She wiped her eyes and they were ablaze, a look he'd seen before. But so different in her face now as she turned to him.
"You weren't supposed to complicate things," she said, anger of her own appearing in her demeanor. "To distract me from what I've been building and working towards for years. Dance is the only thing that's ever made sense to me, the only thing I could use to make a real difference in the world...and then you-" She resented the shakiness in her voice, her chest rising and falling quickly, like a storm rising inside her. "You changed that, you've changed everything."
He watched her silently. Why was everything like a fucking repeating nightmare?
"And now I don't even know if I can fake my fake identity. Because being real, with you, is so much easier than any of it–"
"An' I'm supposed to jus' stand here an' justify it all for you?" he fired back, words spilling out quick and hot. His voice rose, "Tell me Tiffany, which part was supposed to be 'easy'? The part where you signed up for this, or when I carried your wacked-out body up the stairs while your friend went into shock? Or was it the part where those assholes slipped their 'say-yes' drug into your drink?"
She stared at him as if he had slapped her, her eyes wide. He couldn't hear the murmuring voices in the next room anymore.
"Am I really supposed ta believe you chose to get drunk over me, when in reality ya put yourself at the mercy of these sick bastards?"
Her eyes narrowed and her voice rose too. "I did that when I 'signed up for this'."
He glowered at her, "Right. Well 's jus' too bad ya didn't get your proof - guess you'll jus' have ta try harder next time, huh?"
Her fists clenched, resentment rested on her face. Anger too, as tears welled in her eyes.
"I know this game: ya gonna try and try and try again until there's no more fucking chances left because you're jus' stubborn enough to be that fucking infuriating. But it's all for tha bigger pitcha, right? Your legacy? After all ya gotta try."
His dark bitterness ran rampant. A tear fell down her face, her eyes as clear as glass as she glared at him.
"Like nothin' else even fuckin' matt'as. So don't lay that at my feet," he cautioned darkly. "Don't come to me resentful, sweetheart."
He didn't know where it came from, didn't realize he'd been holding onto it like holding a breath. The cold memories snuck up his back and neck, fresh as if happening before him all over again, an emotional rollercoaster he was tired of getting sick on.
Standing there, hating him for what he said –
But her eyes began to change on his face - He turned away, unable to look at her anymore.
At what point does the ride become too much? Would he ever get off it?
Medda was right.
He turned and opened the door, seeing Honey on the other side. He avoided her face as they traded places, and ignored the sob behind him as he left the bedroom.
"So, that's the owner?"
"Yeah."
Spot and Race leaned over David's shoulders, studying the face on his laptop screen. They were in Mush and Racetrack's room, keeping their voices down. They heard movements in the bathroom, heard low voices. Tiffany must be awake.
"So...who is he?"
"A billionaire celebrity, Rodger Wilks lll, forty years old. He doesn't openly associate with the club, but he extends invites to the elites. His family's legacy traces back to the Revolutionary War, and he's seen at most big name gatherings: the MET gala, New York Fashion Week, celebrity fundraisers... I had to do quite a bit of digging to find out."
"An' what else have you dug up?"
David fell quiet. That's what he'd been internally debating...whether or not it was worth the trouble to bring up a photo from the eighties…
"Nothing concrete. Just wanted to...give Jack the heads up."
He felt Spot and Racetrack exchange a glance over his head. He closed the laptop.
"Share what you know Dave," Spot said, his tone dark.
David sighed, "I need to confirm -"
"You can confirm my ass," Racetrack said. "Look, if it's somethin' big, an' you don't tell us, I'm gonna soak ya."
David rubbed his hands over his face. "Fine." He opened his laptop and brought up the photo. The guys closed in over his shoulders again, their faces peering.
A photo of men in suits, shaking hands over a table. Five of them, all smiling with cigars in their hands. One of the men had his hands on the shoulders of two young boys –
Racetrack read the headline. "'Wilks ll and Rockefeller to join forces on overseas trade deal'...I mean, Rockefeller is a big name in New York, hell it's a big name in the whole fuckin' world, but this is from 1989 -"
"Look at the boys in the photo," David murmured, zooming in. "This is Wilks lll, and next to him…I can't be sure but –"
They moved closer, and fell silent.
"Wait -"
"He was only five when this was taken," David's voice cracked.
"Those eyes -"
"It can't be."
"And his name isn't listed," David rubbed his eyes.
"Son of a b –"
They all looked up at the sound of a raised voice from the other side of the bathroom door. It was Jack's, and Tiffany's followed –
"Uh-oh," David murmured.
Spot opened the bedroom door in time to see Jack leaving the apartment, the door slamming behind him. Mush was rubbing his eyes on the couch.
"Tha hell is goin' on?"
"Sleepin' on the job, huh?" Spot scolded as he went to the door -
He stopped – fuck, time stopped itself – when he saw Jade standing there. She looked at him a moment, her green eyes bright from under her green beret, her long red hair about her shoulders.
Her smirk was the fresh air Spot needed.
They heard a door slam from above - the roof.
She held up a bottle in a brown bag. "Looks like you could use a pick-me-up…and an ear."
