April 12, 2005, 130 PM, a Paris Hotel/the Apartment of Richie Ryan
His mind could only be classified as one thing: a complicated clutter of jumbled thoughts juxtaposed to resemble calm. Sitting in the hotel restaurant, a ham and cheese sandwich and coffee untouched before, Adam Pierson, occasionally nibbled on a French fry, as he waited. When the waitress had shown him to the table a half-hour earlier, he had made it clear, someone would join him.
Finally, he saw a man of about thirty rushing through the uncrowded lobby, and Adam waved a hand. A young man flashed a business smile, and threaded his way through the table and chairs to where Adam sat. He flagged a waitress. "A coffee, doll, please. With milk, not cream. And a chicken salad sandwich. Extra mayonnaise."
The waitress nodded, and Sam Clarke removed his jacket, and leaned conspiratorially towards the table and Adam, elbows against the surface. "You never mentioned Asher Jacobs worked for MacLeod, Pierson."
Adam raised an eyebrow. "I did not realize you knew her acquaintance."
"We dated some time ago, before she left for California. I saved her ass in court, what can I say, the girl was grateful. Murder charges, if I remember. In all honesty, she should have been convicted. She was a reformed bad girl, was known to have fought constantly with the girl found dead. They were roommates."
"If Asher said she did not do it, I believe she did not do it."
Sam laughed bitingly. "Oh, she said so all right. I believed her for the sake of my job, and continued the charade long enough to date her. Something like four years. She amused me well enough," he paused long enough to thank the waitress for the coffee and milk. "Funny though, she was on one of the flights that crashed. Yet, there she was, walking, talking, as if she had never been involved in a worst plane crash in history. All rights, she should be dead."
"Stranger things have happened, Sam," shrugged Adam. "But, we have more pressing matters than your remembered fantasies of a young girl."
"Oh, more than remembered, rath-"
"I don't need or want the details, Clarke," interrupted Adam. "Now, I assume Duncan was already there."
"Along with some girl. Quite the looker. Charming Irish accent."
"That would be Darcy, yes. She works there as well. Careful, Sam, she bites. Now," Adam paused the conversation, flashing a smile to charm the waitress, setting the sandwich before Sam Clarke, and politely accepted the coffee refill she offered him. "Now, what exactly did MacLeod say?"
"Not a whole lot. Told him I was Mike Ross' lawyer. Left him a card. Tell me again, I am doing this because?"
"Because you thrive on money, Clarke, and I offered more than I can afford. And, because you have a soft spot for buried love."
"You forgot the love of a challenge, Pierson. I swear, you grow more senile very time we meet. Hit your head recently?"
Adam only sighed, and watched Sam tear into his sandwich. His own sandwich remained untouched.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------------------------------------------------
Two bodies glistened in perspiration. While only one maintained the upper hand, both offered a fair fight. Two swords danced in the air, occasionally hitting the sunlight, and flashing a white light in the eyes of the two, who sparred.
Only when one was pinned to the ground, sword at his throat, did the mock fight end, and the two paused to catch breaths. "Where did *breathe* learn to fight *breathe* like that?" managed Richie.
Asher shrugged, and wiped the sword on the leg of her jeans. "I've fenced since *breathe* I was five, Richie. *breathe* Studied through childhood, adolescent, college.*breathe* Eleven months of slack *breathe* does not erase a lifetime of training."
Richie waited a moment before he spoke again. "There was more in there. I can win a swordfight. That was not a swordfight."
Asher grinned, both impish and mischievous. "Sword fighting, martial arts, and dance. I studied all three. Third degree karate black belt, first degree judo black belt, and a semi-accomplished ballerina. I combine methods. It works well, no?"
"A cheater, I knew it."
Looping an arm around her shoulders, they made their way back to the apartment, and while Asher poured two glasses of water, Richie shelved the swords. "Make this a regular workout?"
Asher shrugged, and handed Richie his water. "Maybe. Today, I had an excuse. Tomorrow, I won't."
"You need an excuse to swordfight? I'd think your life would be excuse enough."
"In case you noticed up there, Richie, I don't need a sword to start with, if I want to win."
"Could have been luck."
Asher shook her head. "That was not luck."
Richie gulped some water. It was still slightly room temperature, which was fine by him. He hated the rush of cold against his teeth, especially since he had chipped (and had capped) his front tooth four years earlier. "What was it then?"
"I told you already. Fencing, martial arts, and dance."
"Those are techniques, Asher. You need art form to swordfight."
"Oh, and I suppose Mac taught you that?" she challenged. She did not like where this conversation was headed.
"He has been my only teacher."
"Well, you're lucky then, Richie. Your teacher cared. Mine didn't. Surely you remember his trying to behead me, and me winning, then running? It was a swordfight, Richie, not a matter of life and death."
"But it can be, Asher. Listen, I love you, I don't want anything to happen to you."
"Bullshit."
Richie stared, startled. Never before had Asher rebuked his love, never had he seen her eyes blaze so cold, so harsh. "I'm sorry?"
"You heard me."
"This is about that man in the bar, isn't it? You said yourself you had an excuse. He's it, isn't he?"
Something in her cracked, and Asher threw the glass across the room, barely flinching as the glass smashed against the wall, and the broken pieces and water spilt across the counters and the floor. "This has nothing to do with Sam Clarke, Richie, but it has everything to do with you and me. Listen to me," and she stepped over the void between them to take his chin between her thumb and forefinger, "you will not always be there to protect me. I am perfectly capable of defending myself, you saw yourself. So, I don't carry a sword. I'll live, promise."
"You cannot promise that."
Asher wiggled her eyebrow in response, and stepped gingerly from the kitchen. "Where you headed?" called Richie.
"Shower. Mac'll have my head if I don't get back to work eventually."
"Don't joke about that," mumbled Richie, but Asher either ignored the comment, or pretended not to hear. Sighing, Richie collapsed on the couch. The shattered glass would wait, but his throbbing brain would not. A first wedge had driven between.
His mind could only be classified as one thing: a complicated clutter of jumbled thoughts juxtaposed to resemble calm. Sitting in the hotel restaurant, a ham and cheese sandwich and coffee untouched before, Adam Pierson, occasionally nibbled on a French fry, as he waited. When the waitress had shown him to the table a half-hour earlier, he had made it clear, someone would join him.
Finally, he saw a man of about thirty rushing through the uncrowded lobby, and Adam waved a hand. A young man flashed a business smile, and threaded his way through the table and chairs to where Adam sat. He flagged a waitress. "A coffee, doll, please. With milk, not cream. And a chicken salad sandwich. Extra mayonnaise."
The waitress nodded, and Sam Clarke removed his jacket, and leaned conspiratorially towards the table and Adam, elbows against the surface. "You never mentioned Asher Jacobs worked for MacLeod, Pierson."
Adam raised an eyebrow. "I did not realize you knew her acquaintance."
"We dated some time ago, before she left for California. I saved her ass in court, what can I say, the girl was grateful. Murder charges, if I remember. In all honesty, she should have been convicted. She was a reformed bad girl, was known to have fought constantly with the girl found dead. They were roommates."
"If Asher said she did not do it, I believe she did not do it."
Sam laughed bitingly. "Oh, she said so all right. I believed her for the sake of my job, and continued the charade long enough to date her. Something like four years. She amused me well enough," he paused long enough to thank the waitress for the coffee and milk. "Funny though, she was on one of the flights that crashed. Yet, there she was, walking, talking, as if she had never been involved in a worst plane crash in history. All rights, she should be dead."
"Stranger things have happened, Sam," shrugged Adam. "But, we have more pressing matters than your remembered fantasies of a young girl."
"Oh, more than remembered, rath-"
"I don't need or want the details, Clarke," interrupted Adam. "Now, I assume Duncan was already there."
"Along with some girl. Quite the looker. Charming Irish accent."
"That would be Darcy, yes. She works there as well. Careful, Sam, she bites. Now," Adam paused the conversation, flashing a smile to charm the waitress, setting the sandwich before Sam Clarke, and politely accepted the coffee refill she offered him. "Now, what exactly did MacLeod say?"
"Not a whole lot. Told him I was Mike Ross' lawyer. Left him a card. Tell me again, I am doing this because?"
"Because you thrive on money, Clarke, and I offered more than I can afford. And, because you have a soft spot for buried love."
"You forgot the love of a challenge, Pierson. I swear, you grow more senile very time we meet. Hit your head recently?"
Adam only sighed, and watched Sam tear into his sandwich. His own sandwich remained untouched.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------------------------------------------------
Two bodies glistened in perspiration. While only one maintained the upper hand, both offered a fair fight. Two swords danced in the air, occasionally hitting the sunlight, and flashing a white light in the eyes of the two, who sparred.
Only when one was pinned to the ground, sword at his throat, did the mock fight end, and the two paused to catch breaths. "Where did *breathe* learn to fight *breathe* like that?" managed Richie.
Asher shrugged, and wiped the sword on the leg of her jeans. "I've fenced since *breathe* I was five, Richie. *breathe* Studied through childhood, adolescent, college.*breathe* Eleven months of slack *breathe* does not erase a lifetime of training."
Richie waited a moment before he spoke again. "There was more in there. I can win a swordfight. That was not a swordfight."
Asher grinned, both impish and mischievous. "Sword fighting, martial arts, and dance. I studied all three. Third degree karate black belt, first degree judo black belt, and a semi-accomplished ballerina. I combine methods. It works well, no?"
"A cheater, I knew it."
Looping an arm around her shoulders, they made their way back to the apartment, and while Asher poured two glasses of water, Richie shelved the swords. "Make this a regular workout?"
Asher shrugged, and handed Richie his water. "Maybe. Today, I had an excuse. Tomorrow, I won't."
"You need an excuse to swordfight? I'd think your life would be excuse enough."
"In case you noticed up there, Richie, I don't need a sword to start with, if I want to win."
"Could have been luck."
Asher shook her head. "That was not luck."
Richie gulped some water. It was still slightly room temperature, which was fine by him. He hated the rush of cold against his teeth, especially since he had chipped (and had capped) his front tooth four years earlier. "What was it then?"
"I told you already. Fencing, martial arts, and dance."
"Those are techniques, Asher. You need art form to swordfight."
"Oh, and I suppose Mac taught you that?" she challenged. She did not like where this conversation was headed.
"He has been my only teacher."
"Well, you're lucky then, Richie. Your teacher cared. Mine didn't. Surely you remember his trying to behead me, and me winning, then running? It was a swordfight, Richie, not a matter of life and death."
"But it can be, Asher. Listen, I love you, I don't want anything to happen to you."
"Bullshit."
Richie stared, startled. Never before had Asher rebuked his love, never had he seen her eyes blaze so cold, so harsh. "I'm sorry?"
"You heard me."
"This is about that man in the bar, isn't it? You said yourself you had an excuse. He's it, isn't he?"
Something in her cracked, and Asher threw the glass across the room, barely flinching as the glass smashed against the wall, and the broken pieces and water spilt across the counters and the floor. "This has nothing to do with Sam Clarke, Richie, but it has everything to do with you and me. Listen to me," and she stepped over the void between them to take his chin between her thumb and forefinger, "you will not always be there to protect me. I am perfectly capable of defending myself, you saw yourself. So, I don't carry a sword. I'll live, promise."
"You cannot promise that."
Asher wiggled her eyebrow in response, and stepped gingerly from the kitchen. "Where you headed?" called Richie.
"Shower. Mac'll have my head if I don't get back to work eventually."
"Don't joke about that," mumbled Richie, but Asher either ignored the comment, or pretended not to hear. Sighing, Richie collapsed on the couch. The shattered glass would wait, but his throbbing brain would not. A first wedge had driven between.