Here it is! Sorry it took so long, but this is worth is. This part is packed with not only steam but action, not to mention getting sweet........enjoy it to the max, but remember.....things are always bound to change...
Rory was running.
She fled through the cracked pavement streets, between the happy throngs of people, into the markets, in and out of alleys and boutiques; her staggered breath told her she couldn't keep running much longer. Her guilty conscience punished her and pushed her to run further.
Tears streaming down her face and sniffling she raced down the avenues, through the roads, and over the streets. Coming face to face with an old church, out of desperation she ran inside. Slumping on a hard pew, she let a wail of anguish out, sobbing all her bitterness into the quiet air.
The church was empty, quiet, and candlelit; golden, beautiful painted frescoes of jesus and the saints adorned the walls, the wood of the pews rich in time and in carvings. After she'd cried herself sick, she drew a few ragged breaths and set to wandering down the aisle as though she could find redemption closer to the altar.
"What is troubling you, my child?" came a quiet voice out of nowhere.
Stunned and frightened, she spun around, frantically looking for the source. The voice chuckled.
"Don't be afraid, it's just an old priest in the confessional. Tell me, are you alright?"
Relieved, Rory let out a small sob that was held in her throat.
"I'm fine," she lied through gritted teeth, the lie sounding pathetic even to her own ears.
It was quiet for a moment, and then the voice came out, reverent and respectful.
"As you wish. Just remember, Jesus knows your sorrow."
In the midst of her pain, Rory's sarcasm couldn't help kicking in.
"I doubt he's ever been where I was this morning." she said bitterly, the memory of the fresh shower scent nauseating her, and sending her reeling with shivers again.
"He was on a cross to die for you," came the calm, old voice.
Rory hesitantly approached the booth that held the nameless voice, feeling oddly comforted by it. Sitting inside and pulling the curtain closed, her fingers traced the heavy carvings of the booth in sad wonderment.
"I know I'm not Catholic, but is it okay if I confess anyway?" she managed, and waited for the answer.
She was met with a chuckle.
"That's why we're here, my child."
"Well, you see," spilled Rory out in a half-sob half ramble. "I didn't mean to it just hurt so bad you know, he was the first person I ever kissed and I thought we'd get married or something, and when we broke up it felt so bad! and then I go to this terrible school and Tristan never gets dumped ok, but we didn't kiss intentionally. It made things all horrible and I missed Dean so much and when Tristan drove up I just wanted to go away away from everything....and I feel so horrible cause I'm not supposed to kiss Tristan, I feel so low, I was crying about Dean last night and look at me now, am I psycho or schizo or something? Or am I just easy?"
The old man took a moment to take it all in, used to years of such rending, breathlessly spilled confessions from the broken hearts of pained believers and unbelievers alike. He felt her raw anguish through the thin wall that separated them......
"Why did you kiss Tristan?" the old man asked carefully.
Sitting in the silence of the booth, Rory carefully formulated lies until she realized where she was, and the pointlessness of what she was doing.
Sighing, she hung her head.
"Cause I wanted to. It drove me insane, but it was just for a moment...I wasn't thinking....." she guiltily admitted, feeling the fresh taste of his mouth on hers all over again, and with it, a fresh wave of guilt.
"Why do you feel guilty?" asked the voice gently. "Did you break a promise to Dean? Does he still love you?"
This only set Rory off again for a few more minutes, and when she quieted down, she answered honestly.
"I don't know," she whispered, defeated.
"Maybe it's time to let the past go, uproot the weed and let the new flower blossom...." said the voice thoughtfully, Rory's expression incredulous. "You don't seem to have a real reason to repent."
"I repent for using someone," said Rory firmly, determined to be blamed for at least one thing.
"Were you using him?" laughed the voice. "Or did he want to go?"
The answer sent Rory reeling. Her heart palpitated in her chest as she considered the new angle carefully.
"So I'm not guilty of anything?" she asked, hopefully yet sadly.
"You're guilty of feeling," said the voice kindly. "Some would say that it's not a crime."
"But I love Dean," said Rory hopelessly.
"That my dear," said the voice amused, " is something you need couch time for, not booth time. Now get out of here, you aren't guilty. Except of maybe being stubborn and overemotional. And for that, you have complete forgiveness. Remember to put money in the offering plate, donate to charity and pray. G'bye now."
Feeling lighter all of a sudden, Rory giggled.
"Thank you," she said, her voice more serious.
"Teenagers," muttered the voice back good naturedly.
Wandering out of the church, Rory contemplated the new spin on the situation. Sadness and a little bit of guilt were still present, and she decided she needed time alone to get over both. Wandering the streets all day, in the evening, she decided to go home.
Passing the same street twice after an hour, she realized incredulously, that she couldn't. She was lost.
Tristan had searched all day, combing the small stores and bars, asking anyone and everyone if they'd seen a girl with brown hair in a green skirt. Exhausted, by three he contemplated calling the police. Knowing the millions of hidden corners of New Orleans, he realized how futile it would be. He had a better chance, knowing the places she might be, so he set out again. At six, the sun started hanging low over the buildings, shining fiercely in it's last dying throes; by seven, twilight had set.
He was raw and ragged with emotion, thoroughly tortured with the images of what had happened this morning. He had overstepped the bounds of their precocious friendship, setting her for a hard fall; but every time he remembered her fingertips like butterfly kissed on his back, he had a hard time being sorry. Throat dry and eyes slightly bloodshot, he headed down Bourbon, hoping to find something to drink. Not only was he thoroughly depressed, but he was angry with himself. Funny, he thought bitterly. For someone who's dated half a school, he sure couldn't keep tabs on this one girl. But it had descended beyond even that. Now it was just pure, unadulterated pain and emotion that left him feeling as though he'd scrubbed his heart with Brillo pads.
Hair tousled and messy, the thin undershirt clinging to his hard body, jeans riding low on his hips and securely buckled, he walked into a tiny open store.
"Package of Black&Milds," he spoke, and his voice was brittle with nerves.
The cashier eyed him lustfully, her hairsprayed hairdo rising with the rise of her eyebrows. Her wrinkled face fell into a pathetic attempt at a suggestive pout.
"Here you go," she purred, not even asking for ID. Not uncommon, Tristan's face was his ID for anything. "Nothing else you'd like?" she asked suggestively, tapping her fake nails on the counter.
"No," he said simply and walked out leaving her staring.
Bad idea, Rory, she screamed at herself as she hunched down in a corner of the blues joint, trying to be invisible. Couldn't you have sat in a coffee shop or something?
The place was packed and bustling, a constant tide of comers and goers flowing through it; listening to the jazz band relaxed her a little, but she was still slightly panicked by the fact that she was completely and utterly lost.
"Hey baby," came a voice from behind. "Can I buy you a drink?"
Trying hard to ignore the suggestive tones and leering looks, she stared hard at her glass of ice water.
The man would not go away; she felt a flash of fear when his friend joined him.
"C'mon baby, one little drink. Southern Comfort or something," the gritty voice continued.
"No thanks," she muttered, and slouched trying to look anywhere but at them.
His friend's voice was oily, cool and dangerous.
"Hey little girl, why you not lettin' him buy you one? He's nice, he treat you right good...maybe you underage or somethin?"
The men were obviously drunk, and she stood up to try to make a quick getaway. The two heavy bodies that reeked of alcohol were in front of her in a flash.
"Not that easy, babe. We tryin' to talk to you, you disrespecting. Bad things happen to little girls that don't listen to what their elders tell em."
Frightened out of her mind and disgusted, she shrank back against the wall as they crowded in close, and their breath stung her eyes.
"Please....Let me go...." she whispered weakly, terror flashing inside her, making her incoherent.
The oily one grinned and slowly reached out, and just when she thought for certain she would vomit she heard another voice.
"Step back or you're gonna get hurt."
The voice sent chills slipping up and down her spine, a voice that she'd never been more glad to hear in her life. She drew frantic breaths of air.
The men leered at her, and then turned back to the figure behind them.
"Says who? The pretty boy behind us?" grinned one of them drunkly.
Tristan's fist shot out instantly; the connection to the man's face sent him reeling, knocking over a table. Customers screamed, a few rushing out, others staying to watch.
Tristan's muscles rippled effortlessly as he slung the other man to the wall, dodging a well aimed blow. Preoccupied with trying to knock him back, he didn't notice the other man rising, blood pouring from his face.
Rory watched in speechless horror as the man broke a vodka bottle on the floor, holding the neck of it, the sharp jagged edge out as he approached Tristan from the back. Across the bar, the bartender suddenly came to attention, but it would've been too late.
A strangled scream escaped Rory's mouth, her eyes open wide, reflecting the darkness and neon; Tristan turned around in a flash to reaffirm her safety.
Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was sub-human, but with a speed he did not know he possessed, Tristan dodged the blow aimed for his heart, the bottle scraping his arm instead; maddened by rage, he grabbed the man's throat and flung him into some chairs to join his friend already on the floor. The band had kept playing, the people watching, a maddening fury of sound and alcohol and noise and terror. Grabbing Rory's hand, they fled to the sporadic claps of the spectators. Once outside on the sidewalks, the two ran a few streets, and stopped in a corner to catch their breaths.
Under the streetlight, he looked older and more tired; or so she noticed. Fire coursed in her veins mingled with pain as she took in his figure, the way the clothes clung to him, the hard angle of his jaw and the firmness of his mouth and nose. His handsome features looked tired and worn in the orange glow, and he lighted up a cigarette that he put in his mouth.
Overwhelmed by emotion, the two just faced each other.
He didn't know whether to hug her or keep a distance; be angry or be joyful at finding her, be sad or be happy, touch her or not.
She didn't know whether he was mad, or glad, she knew he was in pain as the saw the red liquid seeping through his white shirt; she wanted to apologize. An infinite number of tears hovered behind her eyelids.
"Thank you," she said, and her voice was a stranger's.
"You're welcome." he said, taking a log drag and spitting it out into the night air.
Trembling and rueful, she looked at him, her gaze wavering.
"I'm sorry," she rushed out, fearing his reaction.
"It's alright," he responded again in monotone, and she felt pain at the replies.
You put him through torture all of today, said the voice in her head ruefully as they climbed into a cab. You didn't deserve him.
I know, she almost cried out loud. But he shouldn't have done what he did.
He didn't, replied the inner voice. You kissed him.
Shocked, her mouth opened in an O, leaving her speechless.
What have I done?
Pulling her wet hair back into a loose bun, she slipped into some cotton flannel pajamas with tiny flowers on them, the warm, soft fabric comforting her. She was only slightly aware of the fact that they clung to her in a slightly less than innocent way, she threw on a white stretch spaghetti strap, and threw herself on the bed, rehearsing lines.
"I'm sorry that I..."
Nah, that just sounded retarded.
"Look, I didn't mean to...."
excuses.
God! How hard could this be! Muttering to herself, she started down the hallway, the lenght of the pajama bottoms muffling her footsteps as they softly folded under her feet. Padding down to his room, she cautiously knocked on the door.
"Come in," was the quiet answer, and not seeing him around, she crept to the bathroom door.
Standing in front of the sink, he carefully and awkwardly tried to unstick the shirt from where the blood had dried. Standing there in his bare feet and the baggy blue jeans, he looked a little more like a kid, instead of the powerful, unknown man she had been in the bar. She'd been scared at the power he wielded, crouching in her corner as he ruthlessly slammed his fists into faces. It was obvious it was something he was good at, a fact that she did not want to probe into much further. There was something about it that made her mouth a little dry, she couldn't deny it was every girl's fantasy to be saved, to have someone fight for her. And Tristan had more than fulfilled; he'd done it with a fierceness and passion that sparked an unknown feeling inside her.
Hesitantly approaching, she racked her mind desperately for something to say.
"Let me help you," she blurted, wanting desperately to atone.
Perhaps he knew this, or perhaps he just needed help. Looking at her once, he consented, sitting down on the edge of the jacuzzi tub.
Grabbing a towel, storming through the drawers for some gauze, alcohol, ointment and tape she expertly lined everything up and ran the hot water in the sink. Soaking the towel, she began dabbing at the dried blood to release the shirt from the wound.
Silently, she worked, and he stared at the cabinet. The water from the towel ran down his shirt, soaking through the thin material; each fiber of the fabric clung to the toned, tight framework underneath, the build of an athlete. It was obvious he'd spent time perfecting what nature had already blessed him with. Rory was not complaining.
"You're gonna have to take your shirt off," she said quickly, trying to ignore the words herself. "I have to bandage you up."
"Trying to strip me now?" he answered quietly, and her head snapped up.
His face was much softer, a forgiving look in his eyes; yet, she could not miss the pain behind them. I'm sorry! she wanted to cry out, but somehow, she had a feeling he knew. His mouth managed a tiny smirk, and relieved she wanted to throw her arms around him. She'd been afraid; afraid of never seeing that infuriating expression again......
"Well, what can I say? Can't exactly deny it......bet you're dying to get back to Chilton and tell this to your friends." said Rory ruefully.
He chuckled.
"I doubt they'd believe me. I could dance, if it would make this more fun for you."
"Just get the damn shirt off." she snapped blithely, and he saw the relief and amusement in her face.
Raising his arms to slip it off, he suddenly let out a muffled groan and dropped them immediately. She could see from the pained expression on his face this wasn't gonna work.
"Sorry, everytime I lift my arm it kills me, I think it tore a little deep. Run to the cabinet on the wall above the bed and grab me a bottle of rum."
She frowned, but obeyed, returning with some Bacardi O.
"I don't approve of drinking." she said, looking at it doubtfully.
"Then enlighten me as to why you were in a bar." he replied, taking a long drag. Shaking his head to kill that first sting, he let a gasp of air out. He cracked his knuckles, making her giggle.
"I think we're ready now." Tristan said, raising his hands once more, only to let out another short cry hidden in the back of his throat.
"Alright, stop being macho and let me help you. We'll take the other arm out first, slip it over your head, and then just slide it off the hurt arm. Ok?"
"Yes commander," he winced, and prepared himself for the sharp pain.
But he didn't prepare himself for the effect that her nearness had on him, or the way his body responded to her touch; she stood right in front of him, leaning over him, her glowing, sun-kissed shoulders barely inches away. Her fingertips left goosebumps over the skin they touched, and he felt what she was doing was almost sacred. Slowly, she helped him slide one arm out, gently lifting the rest of the shirt off his body. She pulled his head through it, tousling his hair, and then carefully took his injured arm out.
They stood there for a second, unsure of what they felt over what had just happened. She'd let her gaze travel slowly over each inch of his body that she exposed when she'd slid the shirt off, and she felt shy all of a sudden and the unexpected twinge in her lower back as his body had come into sight slowly.
"You know, I'd always hoped that when you'd undress me it might be because of something other than dire necessity," he deadpanned, loving the sudden blush that flooded her face and the tenseness that swept over her body. Tristan was getting even.
"I think you should be grateful enough not to do this right now." she muttered, dropping his shirt on the floor.
"Do what?" he replied innocently. "Using only a huge slash in my chest and shoulder as an excuse to make you touch me? If I had known that's what it would take I would've attacked myself with a bottle long ago."
Rolling her eyes, Rory grabbed the antiseptic and poured it on some gauze.
"Sometimes I can't believe you. Here you are bleeding in a bathroom floor and you're still at it."
"At what?" grinned Tristan.
"Your outrageous, absolutely inappropriate flirtatious behavior," snapped Rory.
"Do I make you uncomfortable?" he leered, and she glared, shaken.
"Yes." she said firmly.
"Good," he smirked. "I like sexual tension."
Rolling her eyes, Rory gave up.
"Take a drink of what you're holding and take off your belt."
"Wow Rory, the fantasy gets better and better. Are you sure I'm not dreaming? Cause I swear we've done this before...."
"I don't want to know," she said, blushing furiously. He complied, grinning ear to ear.
"Now stick it in your mouth." she ordered, holding up the gauze pad.
He raised one eyebrow. "Well this is not normally how it goes in my dreams, but whatever. Why?"
"Just do it," she said, and shoved in in his mouth. Taking a deep breath, she plastered the gauze over his wound and pressed it in. A soundless cry of pain racked his body as it shook for a second, his face gripped in pain; he bit down hard on the leather but didn't cry out.
"Good job, trooper, way to be a big boy and not cry," she quipped, and removed the gauze quick.
The belt dropped from his mouth, and he rubbed his jaw. Quickly, he took a few more drinks, his eyes watering from both the pain and the Bacardi.
"Whoo, that was good. Let's do it again. What the hell was that?" he moaned softly, a sound that send a flutter in her stomach.
"Antiseptic. Iodine, alcohol, whatever, it kills germs." she said, and leaned in close to examine the wound.
Bending his head down to look at her, he quietly realized her face was inches from his as she bend over his chest and arm to examine the gash that spread from the edge of his left breastplate to across the tight swell and rise of his well defined biceps and deltoids. Gently, he flexed to test his arm, and groaned at the sharp pain. He could see her slight discomfort at being so close, but he didn't miss the tiny pleased look that flashed in her eyes when his muscles had tightly contracted. Smirking, he looked at the top of her head.
"Kiss it and make it better." he ordered, a lazy grin twisting his mouth.
"Do I look like your mother?" she said sarcastically and went back to her supplies.
"I wouldn't know, I haven't seen her in a year," Tristan said softly in an attempt at humor, but the sadness underlying it was obvious.
Slowly she turned around towards him, and he saw the soft glow in her eyes that said so many things. Friendship, maybe some pity, sadness, guilt. And hidden behind them all, he saw a tiny spark of what he wanted to see. Love.
Sadly, Rory reached out and cradled his clean-cut jaw in her hand, her fingers slowly spreading on his cheek; instinctively, he leaned into it, craving the comforting touch, never breaking eye contact.
She slowly bent down and kissed the edge of the wound, sending a shiver through the tensed muscles of his chest that he felt all the way down to his abs. The tiny, damp, soft touch of her lips shook him....
"Better?" she said a little absently, as if though the experience had drained her completely, but he did not miss the tremor of her hand as she quickly took it away.
Applying gauze and tape as quickly and gently as she could, she stood back to admire her work. He looked down at it gratefully, and then at her. Taking a few more drags of the rum, he went and brushed his teeth awkwardly with his left hand. She joined him quietly, and he could almost see the turmoil in her head through her silence.
They walked back into the dimly lighted room, and he sat down on the bed, flopping backwards to stare at the ceiling. Rory joined him in a minute, and the two studied the plaster artwork intently.
"Are we going to talk?" she asked after a little while, and words strangely hurt.
"About what?" he said, playing dumb for a second.
"About the fact that we kissed and I jumped out a window and you got in a fight in a bar to find me and then I cleaned you up. Do you consider any of these topics to hold some importance?" she asked, a little frustrated.
He fixed his eyes on the ceiling, refusing to look at the girl next to him.
"It's over and done with. I'm sorry for making advances you didn't want, I'm sorry for scaring you, ....and I'm sorry for not being Dean."
The words were stunning to Rory; they both sat there for a full minute, just trying to digest them. Their hearts pounded strangely at the sudden shocking honesty of the answer.
"And I'm sorry for kissing you, running out, putting you through today and getting you slashed up. I'm sorry for using you to get away, and I'm sorry for being an idiot." she said, swallowing hard, knowing that she had not told the whole truth.
"I'm sorry for not being true," she let the words suddenly rush out, quiet and trusting. "I'm sorry for not being honest with you, for not being a friend when you were so good to me; I'm sorry for causing you pain, don't pretend I didn't. And I'm sorry that I don't know my own mind."
Tristan felt a strange twinge at that last comment, a sudden skip of a heartbeat.
"I'll forgive you, but only when you know your own mind." Tristan said suddenly, and heard her sharp intake of air.
"Not fair," she whispered, and he knew it wasn't.
They lay in silence for a while, and she rubbed her temples in frustration and sadness.
"It's all or nothing with you, isn't it." she said ruefully, and he felt guilty at her words.
"I can't help it. You know how I feel about you." Tristan replied, scared at his own honesty.
She felt her heart race, his nearness suddenly intoxicating.
"And how might that be?" she asked softly, and turned her head to face him.
He locked his gaze onto hers, turning out the small bedside lamp, leaving the room in the shadows of a pale, blue darkness. All he could see was the glistening of her eyes, and the tiny jump Rory gave at the sudden dark.
"Why'd you do that?" she asked quickly, raising her head.
His gentle hand on her arm stopped her, and she softly dropped it back down on the bed, looking at him again.
"I like talking in the dark better, it's easier," he explained. Or maybe it just hurts to look at you right now, Rory, he thought bitterly.
"You know me. I'm hardly sensitive. I'm barely good, and I'm not innocent or pure or perfect. I'd be lying if I said I didn't want you in the lowest, worst way possible. I'm Tristan, and I can't change and become sweet and sensitive overnight. It's taken me a lifetime to turn out this way. It's a battleground; get tough or be smashed. Of course, you wouldn't know. You come from this sweet loving little family thing."
Taking a deep breath, he turned his head and locked her gaze in the blue darkness.
"But when it feels like you feel something back even for a second, the everything just seems different. I don't know how to express it and I'm no writer, but, ......you make me feel happy. I can't help it, I just want to be with you. Wherever you are and whatever you're doing. And that's what I feel."
An avalanche of chills ran down her spine at the honesty and sadness of his words.
Scooting in closer, she laid her head on his shoulder. The innocent gesture caused a twinge of pain in Tristan's heart. He didn't know what she'd say, how she'd respond.
"Thank you," she answered simply, and placed a small kiss on his shoulder. The gesture was so tender, so innocent, so Rory that he felt a flood of warmth through him. The words melted his resistance, and he felt the pain slowly being replaced by the warmth and support she'd given him.
"Am I forgiven?" she asked lightly, resting her head back into the curve of his neck and shoulder as they both stared at the ceiling, laying on their backs.
"For now," he murmured, and felt tiredness wash over him. "It's good enough for now."
They laid like that for a little while longer, just linked together in the warmth and promise of their new friendship, a friendship that held a hidden passion he knew would surface. She was hardly immune to him, and he was already far gone for her....
"Asleep yet?" he chuckled softly, and got a small, tired sound in reply.
"Sing me a lullaby and put me to sleep....." she said softly, a trace of amusement in her voice, but suddenly he knew what he wanted to sing.
His voice came out in a smooth, mellow near-whisper, the bare vulnerability of it sending a chord of trembling through her; she felt herself drifting already, the words barely floating in her mind as though in a dream.
If I've gone overboard
Then I'm begging you
to forgive me
in my haste
When I'm holding you so girl
close to me
he sang, his voice bare and full of emotion, quiet and small close to her ear.
"Beautiful voice," was Rory's last really coherent thought.
Touch your lips just so I know
In your eyes, love, it glows so
I'm bare boned and crazy for you
he continued, feeling the words throbbing inside him, knowing were she fully awake she would have killed him, but the passion of the song and it's sensual, painful melody made his heart hurt. Checking to see if she was fully asleep and reassured, he softly continued with the last words.
When you come crash
into me, baby
And I come into you
In a boys dream
he ended quietly, the hidden meaning making him weak, and slowly, he brushed her hair away from her face.
In a boys dream
Tristan whispered, and gently lifted Rory, setting her on one side underneath the covers. Crawling in, careful not to wake her, he sunk in next to her, feeling her turn to him instinctively and cuddle into the hard angles and curves of his body. Slowly, he relaxed, allowing her to melt into him as she slightly opened her lips and let out a contented sigh.
He closed his eyes and fell asleep, but had he stayed looked at her face, he would've seen the sly smile slowly spreading over her face when she heard the last part of his song, when he'd believed she'd been asleep. Biting her lip in a pleasant shiver of anticipation, she managed to banish the terrifyingly pleasant image in her head raised by those last words. She let a out a tiny, contented moan and let one hand slip over the firm, lean abs and chest as she curled into him even closer, falling into a light sleep with a small smile on her face.
Over the city, the sunrise broke fuchsia and raw and golden glorious, and one lone shadow slipped out of the warm c covers. Quietly, she kissed the forehead of the boy with the troubled expression, and disappeared through the door. In her room, she started packing. It was time.
So, how'didja like it? I thought this part was pretty decent myself.....and I'm sorry bout the cliffhanger, but this story is not over yet. Sure, it's about a weekend. But everyone knows, sin has it's consequences...Tristan is Tristan, and he has yet to change. Problem is, what will Rory do now?
