CHAPTER TEN: CLONING FRANK SINATRA
"Oh, God..."
The whisper broke the stillness of what chaos had left behind.
Alex, usually nimble, found her feet cemented to the floor, cotton-mouthed.
"Oh, God..."
Natalie's ramblings proved she wasn't in a much better state. Her friend and partner seemed to be slowly coming back to life, palms plastered on her chest, right above her heart.
Haunting images of Dylan's pain-wracked figures flashed at the previously blinded Alex. Reality wanted to take over, but the past was stubborn. Her hands, unconsciously fisted into palms, slowly relaxed. But her heart, racing along in erratic heartbeats, was no where near ready to calm down.
She took in a gulp of air in an attempt to clear her head.
"Oh, God..."
"Natalie?" she finally began, stepping around a broken glass gingerly, shoving it to the side with her boots.
"I can't believe it," Natalie whispered, blue eyes watered with unshed emotion.
"I know..." Alex stared at the closed door. "I don't know what happened..."
Natalie's glance at her was somewhat dumbfounded. "I kicked Dylan in her ribs! Her bruised ribs!" Slumping to the floor, Natalie swallowed hard, lost in the memory. "I think I fractured one."
Alex clamped her jaw. She had seen it. It was the ugliest move she had seen Natalie do in her years with the Angels, and Dylan, writhing in horrific pain on the floor while Natalie stood regretfully over her was a sight that she equated with her worst nightmare.
"I know," she said softly. Coming forward, she gave Natalie a grim, sympathetic smile. "I can't say I would have done that, Natalie – but you did what you thought you had to."
Natalie ignored her help. "Yeah," she muttered bitterly. "I'm so desperate to take out psycho boy I take a cheap shot at my best friend. And Dylan, instead of letting him kill me, steps in front of his sword."
"She loves you, Natalie," Alex answered, settling down on her haunches, carefully smoothing out Natalie's hair, now wispy and messy from the fight. "This isn't about us and her, you know that."
Natalie shook her head, lip trembling as her eyes closed, one lone tear spilling down her cheek. "I can't do this, Alex," she whispered brokenly. "I can't fight her. I'd rather die than see you two get hurt, and I can't do this-"
"Natalie..." There was a dark, shameful part of Alex that was relieved Natalie was breaking down, overtaken with emotion. It immediately placed her in the part of the comforter, forced into numbing her own rollercoaster feelings and putting them aside, for the sake of Natalie. "Nat..."
"Alex-"
"I know." Natalie's sky blue eyes glittered like jewels as she looked up beseechingly. "I know," she said again. There were no comforting words she could give Natalie. What happened here had made it real – and even now, the flash of Dylan gasping on the ground like a gutted fish tore at her.
As if sensing her turmoil, Natalie slipped into her arms, burying her blonde head into Alex's shoulder. The embrace was tight, desperate, when Natalie sobbed, Alex shuddered, closing her eyes and resting her cheek against Natalie's scalp.
When Alex finally released her, her friend's eyes were no less haunted, but Natalie's focus was slowly returning.
"Okay," she said, husky from her tears. "They were in here for a reason."
Alex nodded. Rising to her feet, she stumbled slightly, shock making her legs somewhat sluggish. Natalie kicked at the broken beakers, shaking her head.
From the one lab desk still upright, a computer gave a small, audible ding.
The Angels exchanged a quick, startled glance.
"And there we are," Alex said.
"What were they testing?" Natalie asked, pulling out the petri dishes to poke at the contents.
Alex quickly began to study the test, typing in quickly.
"Ballistics," she said finally. Motioning to the screen, she let out an unsteady breath. "She was looking for proof, all right."
Natalie looked up with anxious uncertainty, dropping the bullet she was holding. It fell back into the dish with a clang. "And?"
Alex studied the result. Her frown deepened, and her heart thudded.
"Look for yourself."
Natalie moved around her, eyes on the monitor.
"Oh, God..." she whispered.
The result was positive.
--
Dylan's palms, gingerly pressed against her ribcage in an awkward attempt to hold them into place, weren't doing much to dull the searing pain that jolted through her with every speed bump and twisted corner, but it didn't matter.
Natalie had done this to her.
Natalie.
Sweet, beautiful, haunting Natalie – with her picture perfect ways, and her loyalty that was given for life.
It was proof that Dylan's choice had been damning. This wasn't a vacation, and she was, for the first time – viewed by her friends as the bad guy.
Dylan was truly alone.
The fighting burned into her brain. Her friends had surprised her, and she wondered how she could have underestimated Natalie. The girl was blonde, and beautiful and loved her, but she was an Angel, and Angels were deadly. When push came to shove, they got the job done.
If that meant exploiting an obvious weak spot that an enemy had, so be it.
It wasn't worth it. It wasn't worth going against Nat and Alex when she needed them more than ever. She couldn't do this alone.
The Thin Man, one hand on the wheel, another casually resting on the driver's side window, allowing the smoke from his cigarette to trail behind the speeding car, was callously unaffected.
In once glance, she suddenly hated him.
"I can't fucking believe this," she muttered. Tears, acrid and burning, blurred her vision. Her voice was hiccupped with stained anger, her side paralyzed with pain. "I can't... fucking... believe this." Anthony ignored her, attention on the road, smoking idly. "I'm fucking alone – I've turned against my friends. I don't have the Angels, I don't have Charlie – I don't even have the law on my side."
Head falling back on the seat cushion, Dylan gave into the despair, the murmurings of her broken heart. "I've turned my back on everything I love – all for a stuck-in-the-forties mute assassin with ambiguous morals who tweezes!" At that, he finally gave her a longer glance, eyebrow arching as if in self inspection.
He was callous and cold and a killer. He would have killed her friends without a second thought.
Staring at him, lost in her own oblivion, Dylan shouted with broken bitterness. "WHY am I helping YOU?!"
Whether the plea was directed toward him, or to herself, she had no idea. Truthfully, it didn't matter. The Thin Man didn't answer. He gave no reaction, but instead slowed down at a stop light, a perfect gentlemen about traffic laws.
Huddled in her side of the car like a wounded dog, Dylan sniffled once, wincing slightly at the pain of her ribs.
A white stick, charred on one end, suddenly appeared in her line of sight. Dylan blinked, and followed it to the arm that extended it. The Thin Man, boring into her face with his diamond blue eyes, offered her the cigarette from his own lips.
It was unexpected, and still buried in bitterness, Dylan almost ignored it. But it burned in her face, small whisps of smoke wafting into her nostrils – delicious nicotine that teased.
Her injured area pounded, as if someone was pounding a jack hammer directly into her side, and in the end, the pain was just too much.
She snatched it without a word, taking it into her mouth and breathing in deeply. The drug seeped into her lungs almost immediately, dulling her senses, calming her tears.
That seemed to satisfy him.
Maybe it was the fact that Dylan had spoken more in the past day and a half than she had in any given week of her life, but the silence seemed different than before.
The Thin Man, who until then had said nothing to her one way or another about her rambling, seemed to enjoy the quiet moment.
Taking advantage of her sulky silence, Anthony placed a new cigarette on the tip of his lips, wetting the edge as he popped the cigarette lighter, as he turned onto the onramp of the freeway.
The 405 freeway, easily the worst congested with traffic, was twisted and windy, but surprisingly traffic free - an oddity. Passing Westwood, before one reached the valley, there was the canyons, where the Getty used to hide before it changed locations.
All in all, it was scenic, and somewhat pretty to whoever took the time to look.
Dylan took it in without comment.
The radio of the black convertible came to life with trumpets blasting with a big band.
Dylan blinked, brought back to earth.
Anthony sucked in another lungful of smoke as he twisted the knob, raising the volume.
Still unable to comprehend what she was hearing, Dylan stared dumbly.
Frank Sinatra finally took over, crooning delicately with the upbeat tempo, "Fly me to the moon, let me sail among the stars-"
"You've got to be kidding me," she managed.
Anthony flicked the ashes from the tip of his cigarette. His sideways glare was more than enough to say in his own way, 'Don't start'.
"-spring is like on Jupiter and Mars. In other words-"
"Frank Sinatra. Are you serious?" Stuffing the tip of her cigarette in her mouth, Dylan reached for his glove compartment, suddenly curious.
"- Fill my heart with song-"
The little latch twisted open easily, trumpets burned into Dylan's ears as the Thin Man's music collection spilled into her lap.
With a flabbergasted chortle, she shuffled through the discs like a deck of cards. "The Greatest Hits of Frank Sinatra," she read. "Frank Sinatra's hits. Live with Frank Sinatra. The Best of Frank Sina- I'm sensing a trend here."
The discovery was entirely too amusing for Dylan not to react with a small grin. Anthony's glare was murderous.
"-all I long for, all I worship, and adore-"
Taking another long drag of her cigarette, Dylan observed his profile as she exhaled. Slick black hair, skinny black tie. White shirt. Black blazer - mouth seductively breathing ing nicotine, creating a halo of smoke around him-
Something sparked in her mentality.
Looking down, she glanced at the portrait of Frank on the cover of the top cd. Slick black hair, skinny black tie. White shirt. Black blazer - mouth seductively breathing in nicotine, creating a halo of smoke around his-
"Oh, my god!" Her eyes grew round, the ridiculousness of the discovery forcing her to release a pent-up giggle. "You little cheat! And here I thought your Creepy Thin-ness was original!" She clucked her tongue. "You couldn't have been an Elvis fan?"
Anthony frowned, accelerating the car and jerking into the left lane, making Dylan lurch, and her ribs jolt angrily.
"Ouch! I'm sorry! GEEZ." Stuffing the discs back into the glove compartment, she let him drive. Frank Sinatra continued to croon his heart out, much to the dismay of the young high school couple one lane over. Dylan shrugged an apology.
Anthony drove in silence, obviously appreciating the music that Dylan, more or less, endured.
"You ever play Vegas?" she quipped.
He flicked his ashes at her.
"-In OTHER words! I looove. You."
When the song finally came to a blessed stop, Dylan raised her cigarette to her lips and rested the back of her head against the headrest, thankful for the respite.
The sound of trumpets overwhelmed the speakers. Again.
Dylan's head jerked off the headrest.
"Fly me to the moon, let me sail among the stars. Let me see what spring is like on-"
"You REWOUND IT?!"
"-Mars. In other words-"
"Okay, enough." With a grimace, Dylan reached over, and flicked a button.
Blink 182 filled the car with their loud electrics.
"Better," she said, smiling.
"-I will not go-turn the lights off-carry me home-"
The look Anthony gave her would have wilted flowers. He literally dropped his cigarette, reached for his cane, and nearly squawked at her.
"What?! It's a good song!"
He slammed at the radio with his hand.
"nanananannannana-other words, please be true-"
"Hey!" She tossed her cigarette in his lap, distracting him just enough to push the button back to where she had it.
"-fill my heart with song and let me-come home, work sucks, I know-"
He glared, swerving in his attempt to get her burning cigarette out of his lap.
Dylan frowned. "I never really figured out what this song was about." He arched an eyebrow, finally getting the cigarette out of his lap, and flicking it to her side. "Ouch! Hey!"
He reached for the radio.
"Look! A car!" Biting her lip, Dylan took the precious moment he glanced at the road to twist the knob quickly, sorting through radio stations.
"-hold me when I'm scared you won't always be there, so love me when I'm gone-"
"Ooh. I like this song." Dylan turned up the volume, just as he flicked a finger under her palm.
"-In other words-"
She batted his hand away. He hissed at her, snapping at her wrist.
"-Right me when I'm wrong- fill my heart with song-Love me when I'm gone- forevemore. You are all I long for-hold me when I'm scared-"
The car swerved now as both Dylan and Anthony began to literally fight for the use of the radio. His face, drawn into a furious pout, glinted with frustration, but Dylan, easily keeping him at bay with her two hands as opposed to his one, found herself increasingly amused.
He looked nearly ready to throttle her, and the songs kept jerking back and forth, between Frank and Three Doors Down, making for a curious, raunchy melody.
When the high schoolers in the Jetta glared again, Dylan finally gave up with a shout of laughter, hands flying up in surrender as her ribs creaked in response.
For once, she didn't mind the pain.
The Thin Man, sulking like a child, finally played his Frank, and Dylan, holding onto her aching ribs, laughed for what seemed the first time in ages.
--
To Seamus O'Grady, the man standing before him- the ever-famed 'Celebrity Sniper'- was nothing more than a pompous, un-extraordinary ass with a penchant towards unstable.
Nevertheless, there was something about him that seemed deceptively unnerving.
O'Grady was not a nice guy. His time in prison was an experience that he would never forget, hardened his heart into a lump of coal capable only of hate - and now, he was more than happy to let it remain that way.
It kept him alive, and alive was better than dead any other day.
When one was alive, one could pursue one's dreams, one's addictions.
One Helen Zaas.
The hot anger flared in his veins, and once again, he regarded the killer, bolding snatching the cigarette from his fingers and sucking the smoke into his own lungs.
"You've gone and found yourself a new obsession, have ya?" he snarled, tossing the white stick onto the dingy metal table, eyes narrowing at the man across from him.
The killer said nothing. He rarely spoke - and Seamus never cared to know the reason why. The little bastard was a means to an end - when he was done with him, he'd kill him - just like the others.
"Dunno why you're lookin' fer Angels when you've got your stars right here," Seamus snapped. The killer's mouth opened, but a quick hand straight up kept him from saying anything else. "You kill who I tell ya- the fact that you like it is just a perk."
The killer's eyes narrowed, thin eyebrows knitting together.
"Listen to me. You don't touch Helen. You don't touch her friends. You're overdue for a killin', and if you don't finish the job you started with that stupid pretty boy, I'll finish ya myself." The killer struggled now, but the tape that had been placed on his mouth, an extra security, as well as the bonds on his arms and legs, kept him from moving. Seamus leaned forward, plucking the gun from the desk, the odd shaped barrell of the luger fascinating him. "Kind of a pussy little gun, ain't it?" Without a word, he leveled it at the killer. "It's my job to love her. Not yours."
The killer's distinct eyebrows arched.
Seamus smiled, lowering the weapon. "Or hate her. Same thing."
With a chuckle, he swung his legs off the desk, pushing to his feet depositing the gun in the killer's lap and ripping the tape off his mouth simultaneously. Leaning forward, but not too close, he slapped playfully at the killer's cheek.
"I saved yer arse so you could shoot stars in heaven. But only I make the Angels fall."
Kicking roughly at the chair, Seamus walked away, quirking a finger to the men waiting. "Let him go."
--
Natalie felt unusually tired, pacing up the steps to her house.
Her arm stung in a place she had discovered bleeding. It was a gash she had received from a broken beaker. In the bitter chaos of the fight, she hadn't even felt it.
Life had always been sunny for Natalie. She couldn't wait to get work and she couldn't wait to get home. It was just part of being Natalie, and truthfully, she never understood pessimistic people. She was a lucky, lucky girl, and she meant to take her life by the balls - grab it and savor it and never let it go.
Tonight, she realized that for the first time in eight years, she dreaded going to work the next day.
An aching lump that wouldn't be swallowed down resided in the back of her throat, causing a curious pain that only ached in certain places. Her heart. Her stomach. Her head.
Inserting the key in the door, she pushed. Commotion greeted her.
Her boyfriend, usually a startlingly classic handsome man, splayed out on the floor, in the process of what appeared to be rolling over while her dog, Spike, watched somberly, cocking his head in befuddlement.
She closed the door behind her.
The sound got their attention. Pete pushed up with his palms on the floor. "Hey Nat!"
Spike yelped happily, heels clicking so quickly on the varnish that, instead of actually running to her, he managed slip his feet out from under him and land on his face.
The sight caused a half sob, half grin to come from Natalie, as she came forward, scooping her baby into her arms. Spike, despite the fact that he had knocked his chin rather hard on the floor, wriggled with ecstasy, licking at her cheeks, eyes, neck - and anything else he could reach.
"Hey, babe." Pete got to his feet, grinning sheepishly while he dusted himself off. "I was just... you know, trying to teach him how to roll over."
It was an odd feeling. Helplessness, depression, anger, and guilt all tugged at her, weighing her down.
But Pete, just by being Pete - brought a smile to her face.
"Looks like he's the one teaching you."
He chuckled, running a broad hand through his short cropped hair. "Yeah," he answered. Coming forward, he planted a kiss on her lips, lingering to caress a knuckle along her jawline. "You okay?"
Was she? Not really. Dylan was still out with a killer. Alex was burying it all inside.
And she was... home.
"Just a bad day at work," she answered, flashing a smile. "You know how it is. Girl stuff."
Pete smiled, and Natalie grinned back, leaning forward to kiss him again before settling on the floor, gathering her puppy to her.
"Let's get you to roll over."
--
He had more or less come to accept her presence.
She didn't say much. Chances were that her mind was full of her job, her dangerous, crazy job.
And he hated to admit it, but he let out a sigh of relief when she turned into his room, heels clicking loudly, almost coldly.
Immediately, Jason's eyes closed.
He heard footsteps falter, then start up again, slower. Soon, she was by his bed.
The tingle of her nearness melted into pleasure when a cool hand slid along his features, a long fingernail gently rasping his skin as she pushed bangs off his forehead.
There was a splash, another click, and she was back, pressing a cool, wet cloth to his face.
He snorted for good measure, shifting in his 'sleep'.
Alex paused.
He waited, and finally, felt it - a soft caress of lips against his forehead, sweeping to his eyes, and finally, landing on his mouth for an intimate, slow kiss.
With a final gentle press of her lips against his, she finally released him, and only then did he allow himself to squint an eye open.
Alex settled down in a chair next to the bed, pulling out a large, boring looking book and sliding on a pair of reading glasses.
She was staying, then.
Closing his eyes before she could look up, Jason shifted closer to her, ignoring the jolt of complaint from his stomach.
He finally let himself smile.
--
Exhaustion had taken over soon after she had collapsed on the bed, and Dylan, nursing what was more than likely a fractured rib and three bruised ones abused to the point of nearly breaking had succumbed to the nap.
The Thin Man, at last check, had been sitting on the small table beside the mattress, flipping idly through the Bible.
When Dylan awoke from the dreamless sleep four hours later, she was alone.
Why on earth there were actual motels in the Valley, Dylan didn't know.
The Motel 66 was both dingy, and gritty - the kind of place that rented rooms by the hour. Still, the room that had been rented wasn't horrible, and a bed, after all, was still a bed.
Dylan awoke with cold muscles, and her side ached more than ever. The cane, freshly polished and smelling oddly of varnish, had been deposited in her hands in her sleep.
Still exhausted, bitter, and almost resigned, Dylan didn't look for him. She used the cane to favor her right side, that being the side with ribs still intact, and had settled instead at the desk, pulling out notes and sketches she had managed to pull from her bungalow the day she went rogue.
Without knowing the outcome of the lab test, they were back where they started. The idea that Natalie and Alex would actually accept the possibility of Anthony's innocence was a pipe dream, slowly fading.
Dylan just didn't have the energy to go through another fight trying to keep Anthony from killing Nat and Alex, Alex and Nat from killing Anthony, and protecting herself at the same time.
With the cheap radio in the corner on a low rattle, Dylan slowly began to piece through the investigation. Every passing minute, her frustration grew.
She rubbed at her face with her cold palms, sighing as she massaged her neck. She needed Natalie and Alex for this. The pieces wouldn't fit for her.
The nagging instinct that Seamus was somehow involved still lingered. The Thin Man's pitch perfect imitation seemed to suggest it, but he never brought it up again, and Dylan, thanks to the excitement of the day and the horrible fight with Nat and Alex, had it driven right out of her mind.
Seamus could have killed her in that alley, but he didn't. He said there was a higher purpose, that she would lose everything and then understand what it meant to hate him.
And there was the business with her light, which she STILL did not understand.
What could Seamus have to do with killing celebrities?
It made no sense, and now – it just seemed too much to think about. Even now, the thought of Seamus plied her skin with goosebumps, made her shake uncontrollably, shudder with emotion she couldn't address now for fear of breaking down.
She'd press Anthony again later.
The assassin was going to have to talk eventually, and Dylan fully intended to nag him into doing it.
Her change of pace, stringing together the murders, helped her even less.
Three victims, two dead.
Annabeth Torres - Latina, twenty-five. A celebrity. Shot at the premiere with a Luger, two shots in the chest. She died on the carpet. Alex's notes scrawled that the Thin Man had been placed approximately thirty feet away some five seconds before the shooting, which meant he had those five seconds to get through the crowd to place the shot from ten feet away - and get away unnoticed.
Sandy Chin - Asian American, thirty-four. A television celebrity on the brink of crossing over. Stabbed outside the Dancing Harlot. Dylan remembered the crowd had been thick. She had been blinded by Anthony, but she remembered the complaint about the hair...
Dylan frowned. Quickly she perused Alex's notes. Alex said 11:15 she heard the scream - 11:16 the body had been stabbed.
Dylan had bolted after Anthony at 11:15. Which would mean he was either very fast - or he was already out of the crowd when the killer struck.
After a second of deep thought, she noted that - a purple scrawl under Alex's elegant red script.
The last victim. Jason Gibbons. Dylan's pen stopped. Jason, with his big, excited smile and beautiful brown eyes.
Her eyes closed with unsuppressed sadness. "God, Jason," she whispered. Taking a breath, she shook herself, a dizzying attempt to concentrate.
Jason Gibbons. Age Thirty-two. An action star. Shot in the middle of a crowded funeral only feet away from Annabeth's casket.
And still - the shooter had gotten away...
But Jason wasn't killed. He was shot only once, and it was in a non-lethal spot, as if the shooter wasn't trying to kill him at all...
Dylan frowned, brain twisting her thoughts, her facts...
Why didn't Jason fit?
Rattling at the door broke her concentration. Looking up, Dylan's hand tightened on the cane, watching with feigned relaxation as the doorknob twisted, and the door swung inward.
Anthony, dressed in his usual pin-striped suit and black tie, stepped in, a paper bag gathered in his hands, face hooded as he stared impassively at her, closing the door behind him.
The relief that flooded through her was almost instantly followed with anger.
"Where the hell were you?" she snapped. Anthony merely stared, mouth flat-lined. "You can't just leave anytime you feel like it, Anthony!" Pushing to her feet with a wince, she almost forgot her ribs at the look of pure ambivalence painted on his features. "LOOK! The reason I'm with you is because I'm trying to find the real guy, and I can't do it alone. For all we know the real killer could have shot someone else, and how would I know it wasn't you?" He ignored her, stepping across the room to place the bag on the bed, pushing aside the wrinkled blanket to reveal the white underneath. "Anthony!"
Without a word, he gave her a sharp glance, before his palm reached into the bag, and produced a package of ding-dongs.
Stunned into silence, Dylan's mouth dropped open with a surprised gasp as he held them out for her to take.
"Oh," she managed. He shook them at her, crinkling the package in his impatience. Suddenly all-too-aware of the rumblings of her stomach, she took them from him. "Thanks."
Battling with the wrapper, Dylan watched in stunned astonishment while he continued to unload the bag. A huge carton is cigarettes - long, slim, and expensive. Bottled water. Two sandwiches. Toilet paper. These went on the dresser.
From a smaller white bag, the Thin Man produced a small bottle of advil, more gauze, and a large roll of medical tape.
Hefting the tape, he motioned with a quick jerk to the bed.
Oh. Right.
Stuffing the second ding dong into her mouth with a gulp, Dylan breathed in heavily, sitting with difficulty on the edge of the bed, back ramrod straight.
Mattress shifting under his weight, he crawled onto it, tapping roughly on her shirt as he snapped open his blazer, shrugging it out of it carefully, presumably for dexterity. When she sat dumbly, he nodded again, tapping harder on her shoulder.
"Okay, okay," she managed. "Geez."
The shirt she was wearing was a simple, comfortable black sleeveless tank that fit to her form well and made it easy to fight.
It also required her to pull it over her shoulders.
"Shit," she whispered. Biting on her lower lip, Dylan braced herself for the pain. Pulling up, it came as an angry jolt, spiking her in her side. She gasped, shuddering for breath as she tried again. The stab of pain suddenly felt as if the knife inside her was twisting-
Anthony shifted off the bed, coming around to push between her legs. With an impatient nod, he reached for the edge of her shirt, waiting as she took another unsteady breath.
Quickly, he jerked the shirt up and off, snagging her chin slightly, but managing to keep the pain at least bearable.
"Thanks," she said unsteadily.
The black bra she wore was practical, but snug. It encased her bosom nicely, with ample cleavage, and for the first time in a while, Dylan felt quite self-conscious about it.
Anthony barely looked. His concentration was on her side. The gauze had long since disappeared, and the tape hidden underneath had peeled away with the sweat.
What was left was her skin, going purple with bruises - ugly to the eye, and painful to look at.
Tugging at the tape with his teeth, he lost no time.
Unconsciously, Dylan grabbed his shoulders, digging in hard as he knelt down, stretching the tape and massaging the end of it on her stomach, making sure it stuck.
He paused, hands in position, and glanced up.
With a quivering lip, Dylan nodded.
The cry that came from her lips wasn't entirely unexpected, but he didn't stop until ribbons of tape were firmly wrapped around her torso, ribs now firmly held in place.
In the process, she had gone from straight upright to biting down on his shoulder, face buried in his neck, fingers clamping down at his shirt, nearly tearing it to shreds.
Her chest was heaving, heart racing, but as his fingers massaged the last bit into place, it became a little easier to focus, pain lessening to a throb.
"Oh, God," she whispered. "Thanks, Nat." Blinking away the tears that had come unexpectedly, her fingers unconsciously tightened around him, wrapping around his neck as, in a burst of weakness, she held onto his strength a little longer.
Anthony - showing admirable self control, which in reality just wasn't really that much - was already starting to dig into her hair, cheek brushing hers as he inhaled into the nape of her neck.
HAIR!
Pushing away from her desperate embrace, she swallowed hard, patting at his shoulder, and smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt. Crawling back on the bed, she eyed her shirt.
There was no way in hell she was even going to try putting that thing back on right now.
"Okay," she said, patting her thighs, and waving him onto the bed. "Your turn."
He regarded her suspiciously, but Dylan paid him no attention. She grabbed the paper bag, pulling out the gauze.
"You'll have to take a shower later," she told him, pulling at his tie deftly when he finally settled across from her. "Wash that thing out. I just hope the stitches haven't torn." Like the baby he sometimes was, Anthony seemed content to watch as she undressed him, pulling out the tie from its knot, unbuttoning his shirt, and fanning her fingers over his shoulders, letting it drop.
"I never understood how men could wear so many layers," she muttered, taking the wife-beater he wore underneath and pushing it up his chest. "Up," she said. He lifted his hands skyward.
Minutes later, Dylan was finishing the dressing. The wound, healing slowly, but definitely healing, was clean - the closing scab hadn't been torn.
"You're like a super fast healer," she muttered, tapping at his chest. "Good for you."
He glared at her.
The look had been directed at her so many times now, it only made her smile in response. "What's with the one facial expression, hmm?" she shook her head, focused as she wrapped the last bit of the white cloth around his body. "I mean - I'm kinda an orphan too, but I can at least crack a joke once in a while. Are you like, even capable of a smile? Maybe a little tick that could move your mouth up that way?"
He let out a heavy breath, but that was all. Glancing up at his blue-blue eyes, her grin grew wider.
"Not even if I tickle you?" she asked.
The wicked thought was most likely suicidal, but it had lodged herself in her brain, and Dylan, always impulsive, had no other choice but the scratch lightly at his ribs - the exact place where he had reacted before.
Immediately, he caught her wrist, eyes furrowed in a hooded 'don't-even-think-about-it' glower.
"Ha," she said. He wouldn't let her palm go, so she merely tickled with the other.
He squirmed, and caught her other hand.
"Oh, my GOD! This is great! You're ticklish!" she found herself laughing, struggling against his steel grip as she whispered, "I got you now, Achilles. The next time you try to kill me or my friends - I'm telling them that the super Creepy Thin Assassin is TICKLISH!"
At that he pounced, and with a squeal, Dylan was suddenly the recipient of a raid, fingers dancing over her skin.
"ACK! NO!" Her eyes began to build up with tears, and suddenly, she was laughing, much to the dismay of her ribs. "Anthony! Please-"
But he was as unmerciful in a tickle fight as he was in a real one, relentless as he slid fingers up her right side, maneuvering around her slaps.
The pain came sharply, and her laughter was interrupted by a gasp of pain.
"Anthony! My ribs!"
He paused.
At that moment, she dug fingers into her skin, and tickled.
He screeched, and the quirk of his lips came so fleetingly she thought she imagined it.
"Wait... was that a smile?" she whispered, pausing their game to slide a wondering palm to his cheek. "Did you just smile?"
His face froze, legs tangled with hers, palms now holding his torso over hers.
He didn't smile again.
Instead, his mouth met hers in a lingering caress.
The action was so natural, so instinctive, that Dylan didn't stop twice to think of the ramifications of her actions.
Alex would have told her to stop what she was doing - think about it. Falling for the bad guy was just not a good idea.
Natalie would have watched in disbelief and offered to set her up with one of Pete's friends.
But Natalie and Alex weren't here.
Dylan's eyes closed, and her mouth opened, lips moving hotly over his as he sighed, the precious hair smelling exhale that went through her, bringing her alive and making her squirm under him.
He kissed her with infinite patience, deliberate, intense, and slow - warm as his tongue dipped inside her to taste her, as if sipping a sweet wine - too rich to be gulped.
Her fingers, in a soft mimic of his, tangled in the nape of his neck, running strands through her fingertips.
She pulled, and following her, he sank down. Anthony's body, hard as it was lean, blanketed her, and the sensation of his bare chest brushing against her own was so amazing, she moaned in delight.
His kisses went deeper, harder as he moved in and out of her mouth, lazy but deliberate.
When Dylan's ribs creaked with complaints at the activity, she told them to shut up.
end chapter