Deliver Us To Temptation
Chapter 11: New
Vaughn. Michael. Matthew. God, who the hell does he think he is? Fucking bossing her around like that. Is he not the same person who attempted to kill her (and believed he did)? Did he forget or something? How do you forget a thing like that? Shouldn't that plague your mind and conscious and your every waking moment?
The ding of the train's arrival at the next stop causes her pounding migraine to return. Her fingers automatically fly to her temples. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she remembers that she didn't get migraines before, when she was complying with the law, government agents' law at least. When she wasn't on the run from the people who created those very laws. In fact, in that same place in the back of her mind, she can pinpoint the exact date the migraines started.
Three fucking months and it's still all she can think about.
She's created a whole new life, the perfect alias, the perfect distractions. Sarah Verdi, no relation to any famous being that ever existed, started out as a salesgirl and then the manager of one of Paris's hottest perfume boutiques. She had found it ironic at first that the country she had ended up in was the mother country of the man she loathed. Yet, as she fell in love with the country and a local police officer named Dominic, it was one of the first things she told herself she forgot.
-
She had stowed in a UPS airplane for a ride back to Los Angeles. She had had no appetite during the long crossing of the Pacific, or the stopover in Hawai'i. Adrenaline was as much a drug as an appetite supressant. Or a fuel for anger, for that matter. She caught herself trembling with anger in repeated instances while her mind's eye showed him, nearly naked, staring as she jumped out of his flat. As much as it aroused her (looking at someone with green eyes now aroused her, but she paid no attention anymore), she just could not fathom how he was living the lie that was his life.
It was while on the plane that she had noticed the first signs of what would become a recurring splitting headache. It was the first time she felt such raw hatred at such high amounts. No, this was nothing compared to Arvin Sloane. Arvin Sloane was a kitten that had accidentally scratched her couch compared to this.
-
The jeans he has kept. They've become a staple part of his wardrobe, something he can pair with a coat and shirt for the clubs or a white shirt for relaxing. The jacket and t-shirt have long since been trashed. They each received multiple bulletholes from his first attempt to make himself known in the new place. Eventually, word got around that this was indeed God, Matthew, unbelievably famous thanks to his work in Taipei.
The gym membership card, now that is a different story. He still has that, keeps it in his wallet or pants pocket, fiddles with it when he feels particularly sullen or is reminded of someone. It's useless, has been since he left Los Angeles oh so long ago, but he keeps it incase some idiot from CIA or MI6 or any agency of equivalency is assigned to infiltrate his system. Which isn't possible, he's made sure of that, because the system is only on one computer, and only he controls it. The people below him, they know nothing, never knew anything, only that they take orders from God and God only. Another advantage of his system.
He has long since rid of the cash. It was dirty, he has it cleaned by creating Ecstasy (one learns such things in the underworld) and selling it at ridicoulous prices out of dance clubs in Paris. He caters to the younger crowd mostly, fitting in perfectly with his ever-present good looks and wardrobe. It's amazing shit, way bigger than back in Taipei. The 'V' imprint has become famous; he can go to a bar in some hick town in the middle of nowhere, France, and hear someone claiming they sell the original Vs.
He's never tried it himself. Of course not, that would be so uncivilized of him. But keeps up the pretense that he can't live without it, and too many unsuspecting buyers believe him. He has a new girl every week (it has been Marietta as of last Tuesday) for fucking only, and they know it. As a return, he offers the girl the V at discount prices. It's a way of killing multiple birds with one stone, really. He has repeat buyers, a steady flow of cash, and beatiful women dripping off the ceiling.
He never calls it 'the life,' though. He's careful of that. He knows that if she comes back, which he knows she will, they will both run again.
Chapter 11: New
Vaughn. Michael. Matthew. God, who the hell does he think he is? Fucking bossing her around like that. Is he not the same person who attempted to kill her (and believed he did)? Did he forget or something? How do you forget a thing like that? Shouldn't that plague your mind and conscious and your every waking moment?
The ding of the train's arrival at the next stop causes her pounding migraine to return. Her fingers automatically fly to her temples. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she remembers that she didn't get migraines before, when she was complying with the law, government agents' law at least. When she wasn't on the run from the people who created those very laws. In fact, in that same place in the back of her mind, she can pinpoint the exact date the migraines started.
Three fucking months and it's still all she can think about.
She's created a whole new life, the perfect alias, the perfect distractions. Sarah Verdi, no relation to any famous being that ever existed, started out as a salesgirl and then the manager of one of Paris's hottest perfume boutiques. She had found it ironic at first that the country she had ended up in was the mother country of the man she loathed. Yet, as she fell in love with the country and a local police officer named Dominic, it was one of the first things she told herself she forgot.
-
She had stowed in a UPS airplane for a ride back to Los Angeles. She had had no appetite during the long crossing of the Pacific, or the stopover in Hawai'i. Adrenaline was as much a drug as an appetite supressant. Or a fuel for anger, for that matter. She caught herself trembling with anger in repeated instances while her mind's eye showed him, nearly naked, staring as she jumped out of his flat. As much as it aroused her (looking at someone with green eyes now aroused her, but she paid no attention anymore), she just could not fathom how he was living the lie that was his life.
It was while on the plane that she had noticed the first signs of what would become a recurring splitting headache. It was the first time she felt such raw hatred at such high amounts. No, this was nothing compared to Arvin Sloane. Arvin Sloane was a kitten that had accidentally scratched her couch compared to this.
-
The jeans he has kept. They've become a staple part of his wardrobe, something he can pair with a coat and shirt for the clubs or a white shirt for relaxing. The jacket and t-shirt have long since been trashed. They each received multiple bulletholes from his first attempt to make himself known in the new place. Eventually, word got around that this was indeed God, Matthew, unbelievably famous thanks to his work in Taipei.
The gym membership card, now that is a different story. He still has that, keeps it in his wallet or pants pocket, fiddles with it when he feels particularly sullen or is reminded of someone. It's useless, has been since he left Los Angeles oh so long ago, but he keeps it incase some idiot from CIA or MI6 or any agency of equivalency is assigned to infiltrate his system. Which isn't possible, he's made sure of that, because the system is only on one computer, and only he controls it. The people below him, they know nothing, never knew anything, only that they take orders from God and God only. Another advantage of his system.
He has long since rid of the cash. It was dirty, he has it cleaned by creating Ecstasy (one learns such things in the underworld) and selling it at ridicoulous prices out of dance clubs in Paris. He caters to the younger crowd mostly, fitting in perfectly with his ever-present good looks and wardrobe. It's amazing shit, way bigger than back in Taipei. The 'V' imprint has become famous; he can go to a bar in some hick town in the middle of nowhere, France, and hear someone claiming they sell the original Vs.
He's never tried it himself. Of course not, that would be so uncivilized of him. But keeps up the pretense that he can't live without it, and too many unsuspecting buyers believe him. He has a new girl every week (it has been Marietta as of last Tuesday) for fucking only, and they know it. As a return, he offers the girl the V at discount prices. It's a way of killing multiple birds with one stone, really. He has repeat buyers, a steady flow of cash, and beatiful women dripping off the ceiling.
He never calls it 'the life,' though. He's careful of that. He knows that if she comes back, which he knows she will, they will both run again.
