MEETINGS OF THE MINDS
Griping under his breath, Donovan charged up the stairs of the law office. He was running excruciatingly late, and he was certain that both attorneys and his wife [ex-wife] were losing their patience. Pax had held them captive for over three goddamn hours. He tried to tell the team not to let her drag them into her long-winded stories. They honestly didn't have time for it. Come on Pax, focus, Donovan had scolded. Let's work this out; I have an appointment at five. She had laughed heartily over that one. What? Are you getting your hair done? After fixing her with one of his patented glares, she stopped regaling the group with her tall tales and finally became serious [for the moment]. She went over her story carefully, giving explicit detail. She claimed to have left the agency's AOP squad because they had intentions to assassinate a couple of trouble making politicians that were vocally protesting the president. Her story made little sense to Donovan, and he wondered what her game really was. However, he could not go into it with her in the presence of his team. He would delve into these matters alone with her. It was something best kept away from the team. He would meet Pax later and find out what the real deal was. Anyway, Pax said she was the op assigned to the hit, and she was sent to the team to get their assistance in preventing it from happening. It was a rogue hit, and she denied that she was a rogue. She's bullshitting us, Donovan had thought more than once. He didn't trust her anymore. In fact, he had never truly trusted her at all, even back in the day.
When they were partners, he slept with one eye open, because he never knew what was going on inside her from hour to hour. In the time he had worked with her, he might have gotten two hours sleep total. Although not much younger than Donovan, he felt protective [in a way] toward Pax. She had massive potential but a shitty personality, and she didn't care what or whom she hurt to get her way. Yet, she was wild and needed guidance. Time and time again, he had watched as the upper brass took advantage of her. If anyone threw a bone her way, she grabbed it and ran. When the AOP leader had approached him, he had gotten ill at the thought of becoming part of the assassination squad. He knew Pax would be approached next, and he wasn't sure if she would have the guts to turn it down. She didn't. It was unfortunate. Of course, Pax didn't ever admit her role, she couldn't, but Donovan wasn't stupid. He had been around long enough to notice the signs. It was a role he had never wanted to see her take. Pax was Pax. She would damn well do whatever the hell she wanted, regardless of who she hurt along the way, even if it meant betraying her own squad [which she had done numerous times]. Of course, to prove that she was a CIA Death Angel, he had followed her and realized his worst fear. If word got around, he wouldn't doubt that she could be brought up on charges of treason. The agency didn't protect its assassins from much internally. It shielded them from the law of the land, but not from itself.
Donovan hadn't thought much about Pax after he saw her last, but he often wondered how she had gone down. He was surprised to learn that she hadn't gone down at all. He didn't know how he felt about that. He thought of his checkered CIA past and shivered. He couldn't imagine what all the cold bitch had seen, what she had experienced. After the endless power meeting, Donovan had walked away. There was no time for idle chitchat or a CIA class reunion. Pax had left her contact information, and if he wanted to speak to her, he knew where to find her. At first, the thought of speaking to her further was nothing short of unsavory, but then again, it might also be interesting. He found himself wanting to dig into Pax, to find out what was really going through her fucked up brain. Of course, he had enough clearance to find anything he wanted with regard to her, but he knew that if the CIA wanted to hide her, they could. They had certainly hidden him. She wouldn't simply give over to him no matter what he said or did. He could shoot her, break her nose, break her arm or whatever, but she would still refuse him. She was irritating like that. She took great pleasure in fucking with his mind.
Upon first meeting her, he had felt instant disgust and dislike. She was the foulest, crudest, ugliest, harshest bitch he had ever met. From day one, they had literally picked at each other like vultures fighting over a carcass. He wasn't sure what the icebreaker had been, but he thought it happened on a night when they had both gotten completely plastered to the wall. Donovan wasn't much of a heavy drinker; he was more of a social one. Pax drank like a fucking fish [God, being around her has tweaked my dirty language switch], but never seemed to get a hangover. They were at camp after a particularly vicious assault, and she had gone directly for the booze. She drank deeply from her flask and offered it to him. He balked at first. He had no intention of getting drunk on such a horridly humid night. What are you? Pussy? He gaped at her incredulously. Pussy? Give me the damn thing. She had handed over the flask, and feeling the need to prove himself, he turned it up and drank deeply. Oh my damn. Vodka. He hated vodka. Every time he drank it, it got him in trouble. Regardless of that, he would not let her insult stand and he drank it anyway. Both of them became increasingly goofy. God forbid if they had to go out like this. The upper brass would have their asses on a platter. By some miracle, they weren't called out, and both kept drinking and drinking. Every now and then, she refilled the flask directly from a bottle that she kept carefully packed away. Eventually, she tossed the flask aside. Fuck it. Let's take it from the bottle. Of course, he couldn't be outdone.
After an hour or so, they were both so inebriated that neither of them could sit up on their own. I like you better when you're drunk, Donovan had said. Maybe I should just stay drunk for the rest of my fucking life. Huh? It had been a bizarrely strange evening. Booze tended to loosen up Pax and she began to spill the beans about her life. She told him everything, including a fascinating story of her wild childhood that included stints in foster care, detention centers, and various county lockups in her hometown of Boston, Oklahoma. Donovan wasn't sure what was fiction and what was fact. His lips loosened as well, and he began telling her about his life, his failed ambitions, and his current lifestyle. Pax had listened raptly, drinking deeply from the vodka bottle every few seconds. They had a few things in common here and there, and he decided that for a bluntly crude bitch, she wasn't half bad. Pax had thought something similar, of course, but he hadn't been able to read her mind.
By the time the vodka bottle was three quarters of the way empty, the humidity, coupled with the booze, had made the heat literally unbearable. Sweat rolled off Pax's body in rivers. Of course, Donovan was sweating profusely as well. I can't stand to be hot and sticky. This shit is killing me, she had suddenly announced. Donovan, reeling by now, watched as Pax straightened out her legs and leaned back as far as she could. Was he actually so drunk he was hallucinating or was this crazy ass bitch taking off her clothes? With his mouth wide open, Donovan watched as Pax stripped out of everything but her bra and panties. The body underneath the clothing was nothing like the body outside it. Although thin, it was relatively toned and not the least bit as delicate as it seemed. He had never met anyone like her before. She was a fucking nut. She sat up, crossed her legs, and ran her hands through her short hair. Much better, she exclaimed. Donovan couldn't believe his eyes. Scarily enough, he found them roving all over her, checking her out. Oh God, no, don't even go there. Pax looked up at him and smiled her crooked assed smile. She reached around to unhook her bra and Donovan shook his head. Okay, this is enough for me. I'm out of here, Pax. She had laughed like a lunatic. Don't go, Frankie. I was just fucking around with you. I'm not going to go totally raw. But I saw you looking! Oh, the horror, the terrible, terrible horror. The sick thing was, he had been looking. Uh uh, no way. Put on your damn clothes, Pax, please. She had then reached over and tweaked his nose [tweaked his fucking nose]. I showed you mine, show me yours, she had called sweetly. You're fucking cracked, Pax, he had declared prudishly and attempted to leave her. He didn't get far. He tripped over something in the dark and fell flat on his face. Humiliated, he lay against the ground and listened to Pax laughing in his wake. After a moment, he began laughing. He would lie there throughout all eternity and wait for the vodka to release its hold on him. Yes. That's exactly what he would do.
A few moments later, he had felt Pax's hands on his arms, helping him to his feet. Oh God. He started laughing again when he realized that she had come out in the open just wearing her undies. The image was much too hilarious to ignore, and he fell flat on his ass again. When she leaned over him to help him up, his eyes focused on a small tattoo resting between her small breasts. It was the figure of a sword entwined with ivy. Goddamn, that must have hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. Crazily, he wanted to touch the tattoo, to connect some reality with this unreal night. Come on, Frankie, you gotta sleep this off. Nope. He hadn't wanted to sleep. He wanted to touch the tattoo, and he wouldn't go to sleep until he did. He had reached out for her, and she thought he wanted to grab her hand to help get his lanky ass to his feet, but he had other ideas. Oh shit, she had spat. Frankie's a touchy feely drunk. With jerky, drunken movements, his hand went to the tattoo and he ran his finger over it. Duh. What had he thought he would feel? The sword? Stupid, stupid. It was just skin after all. She had rolled her eyes and helped him to his feet. She had barely gotten him inside when he passed out in her arms. Of course, she wasn't prepared to support his weight and hers combined, and she fell on her ass with Donovan literally on top of her. When he awoke the next morning, his head was nestled between her thighs. What the fuck, he thought as he rose up. He was fully clothed, but she was in her underwear. His head had ached miserably. He could remember nothing. Pax awakened moments later, and continuing with the head games, she had asked, was it good for you?
Pax hadn't let him off the hook for nearly a week. He was so angry, he didn't know whether to laugh it off and forget it or beat the living shit out of her. He chose the former, but preferred the latter. From that day forward, Donovan avoided vodka like the plague, especially when around Pax. After that, he and Pax had come to some kind of grudging understanding. They had a regular love/hate relationship as partners, fought like hell at times, but they had begun to count on each other tremendously. Damn, Donovan thought, that was one hell of an icebreaker. Although neither of them had admitted it, they respected each other and were loyal, but they had their moments. When he discovered her double life, he had been worried more than angered, and shooting her had been the only way he could control her, but then she had run off anyway. Now she was back. Back for more. Please Pax, don't play anymore damn games. Not now. Not this late in the game.
Distracted by his reflection of the past, he missed the floor he needed and the elevator continued onward. He grumbled incoherently and viciously stabbed the button again. If it had still been business hours, he might have had to wait fifteen minutes or more to get back to his floor. He could imagine what was rushing through Remy's mind right about now. Never around during the marriage, and equally so at the end of it. He didn't know how he felt about seeing her today with her attorney. Before this, they had been able to sit down and speak like civil adults. Now, she couldn't look at him without her fucking attorney. The elevator car stopped and the doors slid open. Down the hall, he could hear voices carrying back toward him. He recognized them all. One belonged to Remy; the other two were the attorneys. Taking a deep breath and steeling himself [please God don't let me start screaming at her], he strolled casually toward the office so as not to give away the pain rushing through him.
Remy sat at the very end of the conference table discussing something with her attorney in hushed tones. Donovan's was sitting on the opposite side of the table, making notes and trying to eavesdrop on his wife's [ex-wife's] conversation with her legal counsel. Since when can two adults not speak to each other without hired help listening in? When Remy noticed him, her violet eyes were fixed stonily on his face. Her expression spoke volumes to him. She didn't need to say a word, and she probably wouldn't, not unless forced. He kept his eyes on hers the entire time he was approaching the table and when he chose a chair to sit in. He ached to sit beside her, to speak to her one-on-one. When had they just sat down together and talked? Sadly enough, he couldn't remember. He tore his eyes off hers and focused them on her hands as she reached for a glass of water. For a moment, he wasn't sure what had drawn his eyes to her hand, and it took him a while to make the connection. He was staring at her left hand wonderingly. Something was amiss, something important. Wake up, you dumb ass, he thought. She wasn't wearing her wedding ring. She had discarded it as easily as she had discarded him. His annoyance quickly turned to anger, and his anger to devastation. What other proof did he need that his marriage was finally over? Apparently, she had given up long before he had. Suddenly, he felt embarrassed to still have his ring on, and he wished he had taken it off as well. Goddamn he didn't think it would hurt so much, but it did. Her bare finger was the worst vision he had ever beheld in his life. From the look of it, she hadn't worn it in a while. There was no tan line. He would not give her the satisfaction of knowing that he was devastated. He would fight it, fight it and win. He could get through almost every situation with a poker face. This would be no different.
"Do you realize what time it is," Remy asked suddenly. "We've been waiting for an hour."
He would not allow her to draw him into an argument, not here, not in front of these men. "I'm sorry," he said evenly. "I had a meeting. Where is the baby?"
"I left Frankie with Renata. I didn't want her witnessing this…discussion," she said carefully.
Can we not just say 'fuck this,' admit we still love each other, and work this out? Can we? I don't want to do this. Remy intended to do this, if she hadn't, she wouldn't have taken off her wedding ring. It was that sight, and that alone, which forced him to agree with every single term in the settlement. Remy didn't want much; she simply wanted their union dissolved. He had liberal visitation with his daughter, and he couldn't argue that, either. However, his heart fought furiously against giving in so soon. He wanted it taken to court, drawn out as long as it took, as long it would take to give him time to convince her to give their marriage a second chance. He watched as the papers were slid his way after Remy signed. He noticed that she had signed them without the slightest hesitation. He was tempted to ask if she even loved him anymore. If he could see her eyes, he would have his answer. Her eyes told truths her lips never could. However, she wouldn't look at him, and he considered that something of a good sign. He stared down at the papers, wanting to hold out signing for as long as he could. He pretended to read every word, as if he didn't trust her. If she could close her heart, he could as well. In fact, he had probably invented it. He read nothing, saw nothing. His eyes were focused on her signature. She had signed her name Remy Ellis. She had dropped the Donovan altogether. Enough, he thought. No amount of time he spent staring down at the documents would delay the inevitable. Let her go. Let her do what she needs to do. It wasn't like he would never see her again. She would have to bring him their daughter, wouldn't she? Either that, or he would go to her. Fuck it, he thought. He picked up the expensive fountain pen [paid for by all the money Donovan had stuffed in the attorney's bank account] and scrawled his name and the date. It had taken no more than a few seconds to end a marriage that had taken months to build.
Donovan had known a few people here and there who had divorced, and most of them said that before the ink was dry, they had begun to whoop, holler, and party down. However, the room was filled completely with silence and moroseness. There would be no parties, no celebration. He loved her, loved her enough to do anything in his power to get her back. He watched grimly as the two attorneys began to banter back and forth as if they were old friends. He shook his head incredulously as his invited hers to a local bar. Sure, they could party. Their bank accounts had grown significantly since they met Donovan's stubborn ass. Donovan couldn't sit in the room any longer. He had to get out, to get away. He couldn't even look at his wife [ex-wife]. He slid back from the conference table and pocketed the fountain pen [what the hell, I paid for it]. Without glancing her way at all, Donovan turned and left the room.
As he stood waiting for the elevator, he saw Remy coming out. She was walking toward him. There was really nothing more they had to say to each other. Was there? The missing wedding ring and dropped 'Donovan' from her last name was enough for him. It had spoken volumes. He chose to ignore her as he stabbed the 'down' button again. Where was the fucking elevator? He couldn't get out fast enough. Before she had approached him, he turned away to find the staircase. He had to get out of here, and get out now.
Her hand fell on his arm, burning him. "Frank, wait," she said.
He'd rather slam his hand into a car door than turn around to face her. However, he couldn't resist. Goddamn it, he loved her. In the violet eyes he had loved to gaze into, he saw her love for him clearly. His heart ached fiercely. Why did this happen to us? "What is it," he said gruffly. He wanted her to believe he had no more time for her than she did him.
"Frank, I'm sorry this happened to us. I don't want any animosity lingering around," she said. "I want us to remain-"
He held up his hand defensively. There was no way he wanted to hear her finish that sentence. I don't want to be your fucking friend, Remy; I want to be your fucking husband. "It's kind of hard not to feel animosity during a divorce settlement. What do you want me to do, Remy? Do you want me to give over as if this marriage was some kind of horrid mistake? I won't do that; I won't ever do that. Run away," he spat bitterly, "Run like you've always done." He shook her hand off his arm. "If you wanted to be friends," he began through clenched teeth, "then you never should have fucked me." Without another word, he turned away and strode angrily to the staircase.
* * *
Donovan unlocked the front door and slid into the darkened apartment. He collapsed to the couch and leaned back. He mumbled 'fuck it' under his breath as he propped his feet up on the coffee table. The moment his hurtful words had come out of his mouth, he had regretted it. He ached it take it back, but it was too late for that. He wanted a drink, but didn't have the energy to walk across the room to get it. He found himself gazing down at his wedding ring. He grasped hold of it and slipped it off his finger. Why wear it now? It stood for nothing and meant even less than that. He tossed it carelessly onto the table before him and listened as it clacked noisily against the wooden surface before coming to rest. He was completely tempted to call Remy and apologize, but he decided against it. She would only be awaiting his apology, expecting it. He would not give her what she expected. Nope. Not now. He dragged his body away from the couch and made his way to the bedroom. He fell face first onto the bed and allowed his depression to drag him to sleep.