The Perfect Violation

Lea of Mirkwood

Disclaimer: I'm not even sure I want to claim ownership of Tricia. But I really don't own anyone else.

Author's Note: I've been sitting here for two hours trying to convince myself NOT TO WRITE THIS. It didn't work. Obviously. I should not write this. But here goes...

AN2: This plotbunny was sitting under my bed making heavy breathing noises all night. I have never written anything like this, so tell me how I did. Let's see, what did Becky say? "There is a fine line between fan and sexual predator and I'M DANCING ON IT!" Too much Kiefer.

Note on Tricia: I'm not writing a romance. There is nothing romantic about this. It is cold, twisted and completely unromantic. Tricia is not meant as a love interest in any way. Just...she's a bitch, okay? She's the kind of woman everyone fucks and hates, and gets her just desserts here.

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Tricia MacNeill was a climber. Not a social climber, but a corporate climber, and she was a firm believer in the philosophy of "the ends justifies the means." She didn't care what she did to get up there, as long as she ended up with a couple extra zeroes padding her Prada wallet. In other words, she fucked a lot of people, both figuratively and literally. She was cutthroat, ruthless and a shameless money-whore.

And his next execution.

She was tall and leggy, with dark blond hair she kept permed and liberally highlighted light blond. She wore pencil skirts and scooped neck silk shirts. It distracted people away from the cold, calculating look in her cruel blue eyes. She wore high heels, bright red. Fuck-me heels. Another distraction. She had red manicured nails, long and glossy. They looked fancy when they were picking up reports off of a desk, or tapping lightly on the plastic back of a cell phone, but they hurt when they were raking across someone's skin.

"Come on, Jones!" snapped Tricia MacNeill into her sleek black Nokia. "I'm sure you can get those to me by tomorrow!"

She ignored her intern's protest of overwork, illness and the three projects she already wanted by tomorrow and shut her phone back closed with a sharp snap.

"What a lazy little shit," she muttered angrily, her heels clicking on the concrete sidewalk as she hurried along the street to the skyscraper. Tricia took long strides up the steps to the glass doors, barely noticing the man who held open the door for her. It was nothing new. Men always held doors open for pretty women.

"Tricia, I just saw Martin Overman, and he asked if you were free for lunch-"

"Save it," said Tricia. "That man has been running after me for six months now. Tell him to go Xerox his own ass, get his kicks that way, all right?"

Her curly-haired secretary nodded and turned back to the computer, ready to execute Tricia's newest order. Tricia headed up towards the fire stairs. She used the fire stairs for two reasons. They toned her thighs. They kept her from meeting all her past bosses in the elevator, most of whom she'd fucked at one time or another, in one way or another, and was now their boss. When she reached the third floor of twenty-six, she stepped out and walked into her office. She preferred the lower floor levels because she told everyone she was afraid of heights. She wasn't. She just liked to appear slightly more innocent because of it. It helped her get into people's hearts and paychecks if she seemed a little vulnerable. Tricia sat down at her desk and began to work.

While he watched.

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Tricia took her break at exactly 10:43 a.m. She liked to travel on the elevator up to the roof and look out. She stood up from her desk, turned past the cubicles and headed towards the glossy metal elevators. Click-click-click went her fuck-me heels on the marble tile as she hurried to catch the elevator before it closed on her. A tall, thirty-something man, subtly handsome in a dark way, leaned out to catch the door before it closed. Tricia smiled at him sweetly and swished her way into the small area, her hips swaying towards him in a way she knew kept men thinking for a quarter of an hour afterwards. Tricia had a small, little girl voice that helped ensnare the pedophiles. She could get them all. She smiled at him again and swiveled around on her heel to face the doors as they slid shut. They let off a corporate executive on the fourth floor and then they were all alone.

"Hello, Tricia." His voice was silky, smooth and slow. Every syllable, all four of them, was measured out and seemed to have been deliberated over. It threw her for a loop.

"How do you know my name?" she asked curiously. He looked down, casting his eyes into shadow.

"I know a lot about you, Tricia," he purred. "I've seen you around."

Tricia curled her lips up in a seductive smile. Passion Red CoverGirl.

"Have you?" she asked in a small voice, biting her finger innocently. "I haven't seen you."

He smiled at her, his dangerous eyes twinkling at her coldly from behind glasses lenses. "No, you wouldn't."

Tricia bit her lip and looked up at the roof of the elevator. He smiled coldly.

"Hard day, Tricia?"

"Oh, the worst," she whispered. "I've got a whole lot of work to do, and I feel like it's all piling up on me."

He ran caressing fingers over the plastic case he carried. "Me too."

Tricia tapped her heels on the floor, click click click click click.

"What's your name?" she asked in a low, purposely breathy voice. He smiled in a slow, thoughtful way.

"Johnny."

"Johnny what?"

"I can't tell you that."

"Let me ask you something, Johnny," said Tricia with a slight inflection on the last syllable of his name, so it came out like she didn't finish speaking it. He raised an eyebrow, inviting her to go on.

"Have you ever done something you know you'll regret later?" she asked above the soft noise of the Muzak. He put down his case with a small thump.

"I think I'm about to," he said calmly. His voice was composed, moderate but still growled in an unmistakable sexual tone. The sound of it got beneath Tricia's skin and made her want to hear the voice saying her name over and over raggedly. Tricia turned to the controls for the elevator and yanked the emergency stop. They were between floors 16 and 17. The room lurched and stopped with a loud mechanical clank. Tricia took a slow, deliberate step towards him, her heel making a muted thump on the thin carpet.

What they did then could not truly be called kissing. It was a fight. Both of them, dueling with their mouths open, crushing each other furiously. His glasses askew, her jacket in a pile on the floor and his case kicked to the side of the little lift. Tricia fisted a handful of his brown hair in her hand, her long nails scratching at his scalp and leaving almost invisible rings of red around the inside of the nail. He growled, deep in his throat, an almost animal-like purr in the sound and let his lips trail down the side of her neck, before Tricia grabbed his face in her free hand and brought it back to her lips. He slammed her up against the cold metal wall and moved his mouth against hers, both of them fighting and biting like animals. She pushed his glasses off and they clattered to the floor behind them, folding up when they hit the soft carpet on the floor of the elevator. Behind the glasses his eyes were a cold blue. But Tricia didn't see them, because her eyes were closed tight and a small shimmer of tears gleamed on the black lashes, from pain, guilt or want it wasn't for anyone to know.

Her skirt pushed up past her hips. Pantyhose ripped at the belt and slid with dexterous hands down long smooth legs until they pooled on the floor in a small, nude colored pile. His belt buckle gleaming in the florescent lighting as it lay with the leather strap of his belt on the floor. Hands fisted in hair. A cold, calculating look still in his eyes when she wrapped her legs around his waist and they both slid down to the floor in a heap, a tangle of limbs.

They managed to arrange their clothes in a few minutes once they finished, Tricia taking a moment to reapply lipstick, using the mirrored walls as her reference. While she was smearing the crimson wax over her lips, she caught sight of him over her shoulder. He was putting his glasses back on, completely calm. Tricia felt like something was lacking, but couldn't put her finger on it. That was the most unexpected occurrence in her life, and somehow his calm frightened her. She turned around and smiled hesitantly at him, smoothing her hands over her wrinkled skirt and shoving the ruined pantyhose in her purse.

He looked at her with the barest hint of a smile on his lips, almost amused by the way she was trying to conceal their hurried tryst. "By the way...Johnny isn't really my name."

Her smile faltered as she started the elevator up again. They didn't say another word to each other as she left the elevator on the top floor. He didn't get out and she wondered fleetingly if he had only gone on the elevator to follow her. But that was ridiculous. She'd never seen him before in her life.

--- --- ---

A few hours later, Tricia MacNeill left her boss' office and straightened her skirt. Her new promotion was in the bag. She ignored her secretary's chattering voice and the sound of the office printer printing off someone's pink slip and walked out of the office. She was taking off early today. As she clicked off down the street her cell phone began to ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. She clicked it open.

"Tricia!" she sing-songed into the reciever.

"Trish!" cried a happy voice. "It's Joe! Remember me? Your boyfriend?"

She laughed, but the smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "Hi, sweetie!"

She held the phone away a few inches and made a face.

"So how are things in the corporate ladder?" he asked. Tricia shrugged.

"Fucking," she answered truthfully. He laughed, thinking it was a joke. "How was your tour of...of..."

"Tibet!" he laughed. "I can't believe you forgot where I was!"

"Of course I didn't!" lied Tricia smoothly. "I was just teasing you."

"Well, I'll be coming over later tonight. You still live in the same place?"

"Oh, sure!" giggled Tricia. "I'll be there. I've got some Big News."

Click, she shut off the phone before he could say another thing.

"What a fucking moron," she whispered and shook her head. She walked a few more feet before hearing a muted ringing again. Ring, ring, ring went her little purse. She reached inside and pulled out her little Nokia and flipped it open.

"What?" she barked.

"I suppose you'll only tell him the 'Big News' once he's in the sack with you," purred a soft voice on the other end.

"Who the fuck is this?" snapped Tricia, squinting her eyes in confusion. The voice sounded surprised.

"You don't remember me, Tricia? That hurts my feelings."

Tricia snarled at the phone.

"That's uncalled for. So tell me Tricia, will you tell Joe about all the other men you've slept with while he's off in Tibet? Or will you just dump him with no explanation? You know, people like you really disappoint me. I can tell Joe really loves you. I can't imagine why, can you?"

Tricia stopped in her tracks, her pretty face falling into an expression of horror and dismay. She felt like someone had yanked a rug out from under her feet, and underneath it was a hole and she was falling through it like Alice in the rabbit hole.

"Who are you?" she demanded, feeling bile raise up in her throat. She slowly stepped out of the flow of people and into the shadow of an alley.

"Good, Tricia," commented the voice in the same tone someone would use when congratulating a child on their A+ test. "Now step a few more feet into that alley and maybe we can talk."

As if in a dream, Tricia found herself obeying without question and moving deeper into the darkness of the alley, her red heels slipping in the grime on the ground.

"I bet you're wishing you'd worn the beige flats, aren't you, Tricia?"

Tricia tripped, feeling her heel twist under and skid along the slick ground. She took a few more steps down into the alley, dragging her now-sore ankle and feeling a run start in her new stockings. What had she done? Tricia had no comprehension of regret or any sort of consequences. Another of her thoughts she lived by was, "There are no big mistakes in life, only little boo-boos." But a nagging voice in the back of her mind was telling her she must have made a big mistake somehow, and a little Band-Aid wouldn't help it heal this time.

"Did I-" she stammered, leaning up against a wall for support. "Did I hurt you in any way?" she whispered into her phone, looking up at the sky as if God had the answers to her current predicament. "What do you want?"

"Call Joe," said the voice calmly, as if he was reading "buy potatoes" off a grocery list. Tricia started to sink down against the wall, her muscles collapsing in her horror.

"Stand up, Tricia," reprimanded the voice, and Tricia snapped her legs perfectly straight. There was a faint hint of a smile in the voice when he spoke again. "Good girl. Mother would be proud to see her little girl standing up straight. Now call Joe."

"No," refused Tricia, her voice the petulant whine of a child asked to go to bed early. "I won't call him."

"Really?" asked the man on the other end. He chuckled softly. "I guess I'll have to call him myself then."

"No!" cried Tricia, standing up away from the wall, the shock of his implication rattling her out of her state of stunned lack of activity. "I'll call him. I'll call him."

Tricia quickly clicked the off button on her phone and dialed Joe's number from memory, a memory placed deep into a dark corner of her busy mind. She hadn't called it in so long, and the easy way she pressed the numbers called up a flash of recollection of warmth, hot chocolate, Christmas fires, sleeping naked together on a rug by the fire and happy times. Gone.

"Hello?" answered Joe. Tricia opened her mouth to speak but all that came out was a stifled whimper. With a practiced, automatic hand Tricia reached up to tuck her permed blond mop behind her ear.

"Hello?"

Tricia clapped her hand over her mouth and a cry of emotional pain was muffled into her soft palm. Tricia pulled the phone away from her face and resolutely pressed the off button, then shoved the small sleek phone back into her purse. Turning on her heel, she began walking back towards the entryway of the alley.

The sound of a muffled gunshot, she reflected, sounded a lot like a dart hitting a dartboard. A dull thunk with a metallic undertone from the metal of the dart tip hitting the backing of the cork target. That's what a silenced gunshot sounded like in your ear. The bullet was fired at her from a height. When it hit it let loose a spray of blood, spattering on the ground like paint flying from a flicked brush. The red droplets hit the ground, adding a splash of color to the dark, slimy grime coating the floor of the alley. Tricia screamed and fell over, but no one on the street heard or cared. The phone flew out of her bag when it hit the ground and skidded a few feet away from her outstretched hand. It began to ring, and Tricia strained to reach it.

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To be continued...