Title:
Fourteen Days AN: Thanks to Kat, who has held my hand through this first part. Also, thanks to Jenai, who lets me bounce ideas off of her and reads all the crap I send her. And, finally, Diana, (my newest beta), thanks for picking up so many of those small errors...I really appreciate it! All of you have helped so much! **** Carnival,
the wheels fly and the colors spin ****
They told her to make herself invisible, to hide away somewhere she couldn't be easily found. They told her to take enough clothing and supplies to last for fourteen days. They didn't say two weeks -- no, they said fourteen days. They told her she had no reason to worry, but they reminded her to pack a gun. They told her the desert was always a good place to visit. And then they gave her a map and a shiny silver key. **** Vaughn had protested, but they, like many times before, ignored him. It was easier, now that he was holed up in a guarded hospital room, all scratched, scarred and bruised, being fed shitty, mushy food and quiet lies. She hadn't seen him since those last desperate moments in a gleaming white corridor - when she thought he was dead and felt hard hands dig into her arms and shoulders. Her father reassured her hastily after her rushed extraction from Taipei that all three of them - Will, Vaughn, Jack - would be fine. She knows her father is a practiced, well-trained liar, but she likes to believe he was honest with her. She likes to believe him as she's curled up inside this remote one-bedroom residence (she doesn't think of it as a cabin, though - cabins are for rugged mountaintops and ski resorts, not for the parched, cracked desert landscape). She likes to think that perhaps Will developed amnesia and has forgotten the past few tumultuous weeks and that when she returns, he'll be waiting with wide smiling eyes and a reinstated air of innocence. She likes to think that she will be able to return without the heart-piercing fear of losing yet another person in her life. She likes to think all these things while gulping glass after glass of cold water that eventually stings and numbs her teeth. It feels like it's a silent act of defiance, the excessive water drinking. Hydrating her body while looking out at bristly cacti, tumbleweed and miles after miles of sand and brush is like thumbing her nose at the elements, the world outside. She wants to place her hands on the splintered wood of the window frame and scream, "Take that, you bastards!" although she doesn't know to whom she's referring - the CIA, SD-6, her mother's goons or to the harsh water-starved land on the other side of the cracked windowpane. Instead, she fills another cup at the shallow kitchen sink and forces her longing gaze from the paved two-lane road in the distance. It's only been four days (of the fourteen, not two weeks) and she's going stir-crazy. She's paced tirelessly, counting the number of worn beige linoleum squares in the kitchen (24), the strips of pale wood flooring in rest of the tiny building (86) (she can't call it a home, and even though transients have used this place, she knows no one has ever stayed long enough to call it home). She's counted the number of cars that have passed by since 9 a.m. (37) and noted that rusty pick-up trucks seem to be the vehicle of choice in the nearby dust blown towns. And she's realized there's something almost majestically beautiful about seeing a rusty Ford tear down the road, illuminated in the red-orange haze of a Nevada sunset. But more and more she thinks about leaving this place, getting into her stolen brown Toyota Camry and driving toward Vegas. She fantasizes about strolling down Fremont Street, her head tilted back and eyes on the thousands of lights flashing in tempo with Motown music. Not looking over her shoulder, not prepared to break into an all-out run, not thinking of anything except the garish décor and carnival-like atmosphere of downtown Las Vegas. She pictures the dim lighting inside Binion's Horseshoe - the scurry of bespeckled white-haired ladies clutching plastic cups of quarters and bottomless white plastic handbags. She imagines being anonymous, playing nickel slots and swimming through clouds of heavy cigarette smoke. She thinks of winning a shiny yellow Mustang and leaving behind the Toyota and the guilt of having stolen it. She daydreams until she feels tears sting her eyes and her fingernails pierce the flesh of her palms. And she focuses on the couch, which has also doubled as her bed the past few nights. The nubby fabric is a wide plaid of brown and tan and orange - it's surprisingly soft and comfortable, although it reeks of a dozen exhausted bodies and pungent desperation. Thank God she had the common sense to bring her own pillow, a fresh, flower-scented oasis of escape she clutches in the dreary pitch black of desert night. Her eyes dart to her gun (CIA issue) and to the green glow of her cell phone, both placed at right angles on the chipped, scratched coffee table, which is quite heavy, being made of dense particleboard. She tried moving it on Day Two, when she was toying with the idea of ditching the spy life to become an interior design guru like that flamboyant goateed guy on HGTV that Francie adores. She managed to drag it halfway across the claustrophobic room before quitting, her hands on her hips and a pent-up sob caught in the back of her lungs. It seemed that nothing, even moving a decade-old piece of shit coffee table, would ever go her way. And she sat there, arms crossed at her chest at an attempt of holding it all in, just staring at her Nokia, willing for it to ring, for its glowing window to flash with an incoming call. She wanted to talk to her father, to Will, to Francie, to Weissto Vaughn. She longed for some kind of contact with another person hell, she'd even talk to Sloane. She'd chum it up with fake laughter and small talk and pretend she didn't hate him so vehemently. She squeezed her eyes shut and admonished herself for being so desperate -- and that was only on Day Two. Day Three was no better. She was stupid enough to attempt dialing Vaughn's cell, which resulted in nothing but a voice mail shrouded in static. She found herself smiling, though, upon hearing his recorded voice - it was tired and rushed, but it was still him. Still Vaughn.and he was alive. One thing for which to be thankful. Oh, that and the electric fan she was lucky enough to locate in the building's only closet, a dingy little nook covered in green indoor/outdoor carpet. The fan was the only thing in the stale-smelling closet, save a few feet of knotted twine and a pair of green-handled hedge clippers, which served absolutely no purpose in the desert. The fan had been her saving grace during the past few days -- the one thing keeping her sane through the blistering hot days. She untied all the knots in the twine while humming 80s pop songs. After that, she started talking into the fan, feeling foolish at first, but eventually enjoying the sound of her voice made choppy by metal blades. She spent most of Day Three with her bare feet dangling off the end of the couch, elbows of the coffee table, chin resting on hands -- mere inches from the whirring fan. What came from her mouth was, for the most part, complete gibberish, from nursery rhymes to reciting foreign phrases and alphabets. Toward the end of the day, as the sun was relenting behind the far-off hills, she said all the things she wished she would've said to her mother in the few minutes before her father rescued her. Started with an angry, powerful, "You selfish, selfish bitch!" Ended with a quiet, emotional, "I loved you so much it hurt, so much I thought my love could bring you backbut I never once thought it would be like this" But no matter which words escaped her mouth, the main one circling in her mind was a mere "why?" It hovered and buzzed and descended so often that she finally turned off the fan, moved to the kitchen window and glared at her stolen Toyota with glassy eyes. And now Day Four is slowly edging into Night Four. She nibbles mindlessly on a granola bar and finishes another glass of cold water as the sun disappears completely from the sky. The sweat coating the back of her neck is sticky, but growing cooler by the minute. She sighs, rising to fill her glass. A gasp catches in the back of her dry throat. Without taking her eyes off the shadowy figure she sees through the window, she gingerly places her glass in the sink, careful to not make a sound. **** There's movement in the driveway. What catches her eye initially is a flash of light reflected off a wristwatch - an arm swinging in tempo with brisk steps. She quickly recognizes the form of a man, relatively tall (she thinks around 6'0"), slim - who obviously has one major set of balls to be approaching a dilapidated one-room shack in the middle of the Nevada desert. She moves quick, ducking low, snatching her gun off the coffee table and sliding out the back window. Having spent the past days relatively unstimulated, her mind is now extraordinarily focused, her sight as sharp as a Ginsu knife. She presses her body against the buckled siding of the house, easing around the corner, her gun grasped tight in her right hand. Adrenaline shoots through her limbs - every inch of her body is painfully alive and aware. In a matter of seconds, she focuses in on her prey, who's nearing the door. She takes a deep breath and starts running full speed, her bare feet barely making a sound on the packed sand. Wind rushes through her hair, into her ears, through the splayed fingers of her left hand. Her heart is pumping and the pain of a cactus needle lodged in her heel barely registers - all she can see is the outline of a body. Closer and closerandcloserandcloser - Until she throws herself at him, on him, over him, connecting solidly with this shadow of substance. Her left hand tugs and hits and smacks. Words fly out of her mouth, but she's not aware of a single syllable. He fights back, but her adrenaline and strength are a combination he can't weaken. Warm metal is against his temple and she's breathing heavily, straddling him, her stomach pressed against his. Her dark eyes move wildly and she sees everything -- darkened desert sky, white-hot stars, crooked front door, black leather belt, gleaming Rolex -- but his face. Her thighs gripping the sides of his taut abdomen, she closes the gap between their bodies until she can hear the thump of his heart. It's a fast rhythm she's more than familiar with. "You should be scared." The words stick to the roof of her dry mouth. Silence. Their labored breathing is all that fills the air. His breath smells like coffee. His head moves slightly, and in the moonlight she sees his piercing blue eyes, crooked bottom lip, and short blond hair. "Sark," she breathes, trying to hide her surprise. His white oxford is now balled in her angry fist and she straightens herself, pulling him closer. His nostrils flare. "How the hell did you find me?" she growls through clenched teeth. No answer. His eyes manage to burrow into her, but see right through her at the same time. She shoves him to the ground harshly, satisfied when he lets out a grunt of discomfort. She brings one knee to rest on his stomach and starts pressing. "Grmmmphh," is all he says. She suddenly realizes that grunting and moaning sounds the same in any language, the sounds defying any accent. It's all the same; we're all the same, she thinks. We all express the most basic emotions the same way, whether we're American or English, Czech or Chinese, killer or defender. She presses harder, his muscles tense beneath her. "Tell me," she repeats, twisting her knee. The action solicits another grunt from Sark, who has all but gone still. "I have my methods," he whispers calmly, his breathing regulated. "The CIA isn't impenetrable." "Fuck," she mutters under her breath. She sits still for a few seconds, cursing all those stupid fucks in suits that assured her she'd be safe in this shithole. She slowly moves her right hand, pointing the gun at his chest. She can't think straight, so she does the only thing that makes sense - she runs her free hand over his pant leg, the right one first, starting at the ankles and reaching around. Bony ankles. Her hand fits the curve of his leg as it slides upward. Muscular thighs. She reaches for Sark's belt, her fingers sweeping against the soft leather around his waist until they hit what she expected. A belt holster - the material just as supple as his belt. She can't see it, but imagines it's also black. From what she's gathered, he's not the type of man who would mismatch. And yes, there's a gun. She sighs and continues her pat-down - her hands making their way across his chest, down his arms. He may be slim, but he's got muscles - her fingers greedily discover. His breathing is no longer regulated. Neither is hers. And then she realizes she hasn't been this physically close to a man in months. Since Noah. She bites her lip, forcing the memories aside, and moves back to his belt, where she works the holster until the gun is free and clutched in her left hand. "Are you alone?" Her voice shocks her - it sounds so weary, completely out of place with the determined woman who just felt up a complete stranger. "Yes." He's looking at her in an odd way - his unfaltering gaze understanding but defiant. She straightens both arms, digging both gun barrels into his chest. "Are you sure?" He shifts uncomfortably and grimaces. "Yes." Out of the corner of her eye, something moves. Her back muscles contract and she spins at the waist, pulling both triggers. Dust flies, clouding her vision. Her eyes scan the area, seeing only sand. The sound of gunshots is still pounding in her ears, echoing off the distant hills. Sark is coughingand making some other noise. He's laughing - a grainy laugh. "You," he laughs, "just shot a snake." She knows she shouldn't laugh, shouldn't chuckle, shouldn't even break a tiny smile. But she can't help it. The corners of her mouth twitch upward involuntarily and she sees he's doing the same. "Oh Christ," she says through a sigh. She slides off his chest, guns still pointed at him. "Get up." He gracefully rises, dusting himself off with broad, stiff brushes of his hands. Even though she's afraid he'll run, she knows he won't. He's not a fool - he doesn't want to die in this remote part of the desert any more than she does. "Inside," she motions with the guns to the door. He doesn't even glance at her as he moves to the cracked wood door. He tries the handle. "It's locked." "Yeah, I know that," she mutters. "You think I would just leave it wide open?" She's next to him and the wind picks up, almost if on cue. Her hair whips against her face and she tucks a gun in the waistband of her black yoga pants. "Move," she demands and her hair is blown into her mouth. "Plechh." Her tongue pushes the hair out, tasting the strawberry fragrance of her shampoo. His eyebrow rises and she can tell he wants to smile. He's not taking her seriously, she realizes. He knows she won't kill him. "Are you going to move or not?" she snaps, surprised again at her voice. It's sharp, upset, frustrated. He obliges quietly, stepping back a few feet. She pictures her mother's twisted, condescending smirk as she kicks the door open with a grunt. "And in bare feet no less," Sark comments with an appreciative tilt of the head. "Impressive." "The lock is a piece of shit." She's still irritated. "Get inside." He saunters past her and into the building. His eyebrows rise yet again and he turns to her, his black suit jacket flapping. "The CIA certainly knows how to furnish luxurious accommodations for its employees." "Yeah, well, I'm not exactly their most satisfied employee at the moment," she comments wryly. A thousand curse words jam her thoughts. She adjusts the gun in her waistband and walks determinedly to the coffee table. "Sit." She reaches for the twine and his eyes follow. "You cannot be seriously contemplating using that on me," he snarls. "Sit," she repeats sternly. She senses his hesitation and waves her gun at him. "Now!" He lowers his body onto the plaid sofa, which lets out a squeak of resistance. He bites his bottom lip as she starts to wrap the twine around his wrists. "Honestly, Ms. Bristow, I don't know what exactly you are planning, but - " "But what? You want to give me pointers on how to treat a hostage?" She continues to wrap the twine, pulling it until his light skin reddens. "I guess it's unfortunate I forgot my dental equipment at home." Giving the twine a final tug, she secures it with a few military knots. She pauses and bends until she is looking directly into his fiery eyes. "We could've had some real fun then, don't you think?" He remains silent, eyes narrowed and lips pursed, continuing to stare into her. It makes her feel uneasy and self-conscious and all too aware that she's make-up free and glazed with a thin layer of sticky sweat. She hurriedly turns her back to him and switches on the fan with a muted sigh. Minutes pass in a heavy silence only broken by the mechanical whirring of the fan's old, overworked motor. *
* * * She tucks her hair behind her ears and stands up, surveying the room. It's odd, but she never once considered looking out of place in this rustic desert environment - but Sark sure as hell does with his starched white shirt, expensive suit and shiny Rolex. She feels his glare scorching her skin, but she keeps her gaze on the window, in which she can watch him without having to look directly at him. "So, I'm assuming they know you're here?" He nods. "Of course." "And I'm also assuming that they'll be coming for you if don't return by a set time?" "Also correct." His voice is as frigid as Siberia. She has no reason to doubt him, but she does. She would bet money (Vegas, Vegas, blue-haired women and smoke clouds) that he's bluffing. He has a tell - a twitch in his left cheek - that hasn't gone unnoticed. "So," she ventures again, sitting on the edge of the coffee table, her knees deliberately brushing against his. The eye contact, so intense, almost makes her shiver. "We can have a little talk before your friends show up." His cheek spasms and she hides a smile. He's lying. They have no idea where he isand he thinks she believes him. Oh, the fun she could have. But, first, a pressing question: "Why did you come here?" "What do you plan on doing with me?" he counters. "Don't avoid my question," she snaps. "I'd appreciate an answer." "And, I, Ms. Bristow," he leans forward, motioning with his bound hands, "would appreciate these restraints removed." She reaches out, her fingers running along the rough twine, trailing along his surprisingly soft skin. "Answer my question." He sighs, but not before quickly glancing at her mobile hands. "I had orders from my employer." "You mean my mother?" she slips her index finger under the taut twine, causing it to pull tighter on his wrists. "No, Khasinau." He's expressionless, having been trained well. Too bad he can't control that twitch in his cheek. She's surprised, but continues, "Why did he send you here?" Yet another sigh escapes Sark's mouth. "I told you-" "No, you didn't." She pulls away from the twine, but not before twisting it around her finger, causing a quick grimace to appear on Sark's face. Her frustration is escalating and she can feel her eyebrows furrowing. "Tell. Me. Why." "I don't know why," he replies icily. "Yes you do." "I refuse to argue with you -" "Could've fooled me." She rests her elbows on her knees and waits. "I've got all the time in the world, Mr. Sarkor at least until your coworkers track us down." She places her chin on top of her entwined, steepled fingers, her eyes not straying from his. She can't help but study his eyes - the way the brilliant sapphire claims the outside edges of his irises and gradually morphs into a grayish-blue near the pupil. "I haven't done anything in daysand I still have nine more left. I really would have no problem sitting here, like this, all night." "How very exciting," Sark mumbles sarcastically, looking away. "Yeah, well, this is the most excitement I've had in five days," she says, her knuckles digging into the soft skin under her chin. "I'm glad to be of service, then, Ms. Bristow-" "Sydney," she lurches forward, grabbing the fine material of his trousers at his knee. A fake smile is plastered on her faces as she continues, "You know my name -- why even attempt a forced formality when we both know that you're not as civil and refined as you'd like people to believe." His eyes snap back to hers. They're not hostile like she expected, but rather amused and glinting. "Civility is a relative term, Sydney," is all he says, a smirk claiming his lips. She releases the material and shoves his leg with a force that startles her. He, on the other hand, shows no sign of surprise. He just attempts to adjust his disheveled pant leg. And with that, he falls back into silence. She moves to the window, gun in hand, and sees nothing but the dark of night and faint stripes of moonlight that disappear just below the clouds. * * * She's antsy, sitting on the edge of the coffee table, her bare feet tapping on the dingy rust-colored carpet. She's bored still, yes, but the boredom has been pushed aside by the slippery desire for revenge. Which each glance at Sark, the fantasies intensify and the ideas marinate in her mind. She thinks of pummeling his smug face with tight fists and callused bare feet. She thinks of pulling that twine so tight that blood seeps onto his pristine white shirt. She thinks of the bullets in her gun and how easily they could blow out his kneecaps. She wants revenge - so much she can taste a hint of sweetness on the back of her tongue. She stretches her fingers and clears her throat, hoping both actions will erase the wicked scenarios from her mind. "You still haven't told me why Khasinau sent you here." Her voice is rough with aggression. He matches her tone, saying, "No, I haven't. But then you haven't removed these restraints." "And that's because I don't trust you." He lets out a stiff chuckle. "I don't blame you." He licks his lips. "But I need not remind you that you're armed - I'm not." Her fingers slide slowly along the metal of her gun. It's a powerful feeling, holding a gun - holding a man hostage. She hates firing guns, though - the smell and sound and thoughts of death. She shudders and becomes increasingly pissed when he tilts his head, having noticed her involuntarily movement. It's almost as if his silent acknowledgement over her lack of control has threatened to weaken her. And she doesn't like that. She feels this electricity pulsing through her veins and doesn't know what to do with it. She just knows her limbs feel edgy from lack of movement. Feeling an immediate need to put some distance (however small) between her and Sark, she stands. A sharp pain in her heel causes her to gasp and lift her foot. "Goddamn," she mutters, arching her back to turn her head and view the damage. Sark angles his head to observe her reddened heel. "Ah, cactus needle," he comments. She shoots him a narrowed eyed glare and resumes her seated position on the edge of the coffee table. Upon closer inspection, she realizes the cactus needle is fully embedded in her flesh, which is now tender to the touch. "Have you ever noticed that some injuries are relatively painless until you actually inspect the damage?" Sark ventures, the tiniest note of empathy in his voice. "Or how a man can appear harmless," she starts through clenched teeth, closely examining the inflamed area of her foot, "until you watch him commit a savage murder?" "There's no such thing as a harmless man, Sydney," he retorts. "Given the proper motivation - and perhaps desperation - any man can become a threat." She remembers the past few days in a quick orange blur -- the fan and the sunsets and the car counting and water guzzling. With her head still bent over her foot, she raises her eyes until her gaze, powerful and electric, meets his. "So can any woman." * * * She carefully prods the area round the cactus needle, wincing as a sharp pain shoots through her foot. "My mother always used a honey salve to remove them," Sark offers quietly, his eyes strangely distant. "You got cactus needles stuck in your feet quite often?" she blurts out incredulously, finding it hard to picture a younger version of Sark, let alone him with actual parentsand in the desert. "Actually, yes," he answers. His brows are knitted together as he continues to focus intently on the far end of the kitchen counter. "She became quite an expert at removing them after the first few times." He pauses, adjusting his bound hands. "I was a very rambunctious child and had a tendency to get into some rather interesting predicaments." "You lived in the desert?" she finds herself leaning forward, intrigued, her foot temporarily forgotten. "Yes." It looks like he wants to say more, but knows it's best not to reveal too much personal information. Rubbing his thumb against his index finger, he adds, "I lived in many different locales as a child." His eyes slowly move from the scratched kitchen counter to meet hers. Although they still hold a faraway glaze, she sees a glint of something familiar - a look that she's caught in the mirror more than a few times this past year. Profound sadnessa wise beyond the years exhaustion that usually can only be found in those thirty years older. A look that has found a permanent home in her father's eyes. "Where else did you live?" she finds herself asking out of pure curiosity. Surprised at her interest, he hesitates. She tucks her hair behind her ear as she waits, quickly eyeing the twine on his wrists. "Cities." She pictures gray London streets and the colorful silk patterns of Bombay. "Quaint villages." Visions of tiny towns nestled on curved, quiet roads in Provence and Tuscany. "Rural areas." Sheep grazing on green Irish hills - chickens and cows dotting a flat-land farm in eastern Kansas. "And yes, even the desert." She pictures a tow-headed boy running at full speed past cacti, crunchy tumbleweed and stolen brown Toyotas. "Hmm," she murmured, wondering what it would've been like to have traveled the world at such a young age - not on missions, but attending grade school in foreign countries. "Did you like it? The traveling?" His head tilts and again, she surmises he's debating whether to answer the invasive question. "I wouldn't call it traveling," he comments, biting his lower lip. "It wasn't something I chose to do - it was forced upon me." He sighs and she thinks never has a face so physically young seemed so aged. "But I would assume my rather nomadic childhood contributed greatly to my current lifestyle." "Which is?" she prompts. As soon as the words leave her mouth, she feels a shift in his mood. She's pushed too far - his guard is back up. "One not terribly unlike yours, Sydney," he says quietly, his voice sliding smoothly over the syllables. She immediately thinks: Except I don't kill. Except I don't torture innocent people. Except I'm trying to do good. Except I'm risking my life on a daily basis for my country, not for the almighty dollar. But she says, her thumbnail lodged between her teeth, "Perhaps." "Sydney," he breathes, scooting away from the back of the couch until he's sitting on the edge. "You cannot truly believe that we are really that different." She sighs and absentmindedly runs a hand through her hair. "Y'know what? Maybe we're not." She watches the corners of his mouth perk up. "But I like to think, when it comes to the very basic issues of morality - the right and wrong - that I am absolutely nothing like you." "I see," the words barely escape through his teeth. "It's your right to have an opinion. However, I think if you had to choose between an arduously slow death and surrendering your so-called morality, your opinion might change." "I'd like to think it wouldn't," she counters, her fingers gripping her thighs. She feels that itchy, electric jumpiness return to her already tense muscles. A few moments of complete silence pass during which she's practically convinced he's holding his breath. Her suspicions are confirmed when he exhales loudly, dipping his head. Seeing where his light hair meets the smooth nape of his neck, she has the urge to touch him - wishing she could heal him and make him good with the slightest brush of the hand. Hell, she wishes she could heal herself too. Images of Vegas flash through her head once again. Escape to rainbow-spurting fountains, marble-tiled lobbies, valets with burgundy suits and black, official-looking hats. Escape to civilization, where it wouldn't feel so damn normal to clutch a gun and tie up men with rough twine. Just fucking escape to a place where she can blend in and slowly slide red plastic chips over soft green felt. Her heel is throbbing with a pressurized pain. She can feel her blood pumping to and from the swollen area in a quick rhythm. She can hear him breathing, see the gradual rise and fall of his chest, observe his pupils slowly dilating. She can see his fingers twitch and his shoulders relax slightly. She sees him - and knows he's observing her too. And sighing, she wonders what he sees when he looks at her. * * * "You came here to kill me," she states an hour later, still seated on the coffee table. "No." It's an instant, almost too-quick response that jars her with its soft denial. "Then what?" Weary, that's what she is. She's purely exhausted from hours spent with this man who can enrage and placate her in the same breath. She can't figure him out - and it's frustrating the hell out of her. "You're quite good at pretending you want to know," he whispers. "But you don't really want to know, do you?" She feels like she's been bitch smacked, a strong backhand whipping her head to the side from the force. Her mouth ajar, she clambers for the right words. Deny, deny, deny, she thinks. But it's true, oh God it's so true. Electric, again - she's angered at how close he's come to the truth. Electric and tingly and enraged, she is. "I-I think you're crazy," is all she can manage, and poorly. "And I think you don't want to know the truth." "Then why would I keep asking?" "You're asking, yes," he allows with a shrug. "But you're not demanding, you're not forcing me to answer, you're not putting a gun to my head and -" One snap movement and she's straddling him, her muscular thighs squeezing his legs and her slick black gun pressed against his temple. "Like this?" She presses harder, metal against flesh, until she can feel him squirm. "Is this what you want? Strong-armed tactics?" [end
part one] |
