Chapter 4:
Disclaimers and warnings see Chapter 1. Feedback appreciated. Enjoy!
Lyle was acutely aware of the fact that his head felt about the size of a watermelon. Seraphina had apparently slipped him the veritable mickey last night. Regardless, he still suppressed a snicker with difficulty every time he thought of her name. Sounded like a porn name, for Christ's sake. Seraphina Parris. Right.
It was surreal, he reflected, sitting in a red leatherette booth that was ripped in several places, in a diner in rather tenuous compliance with the state health code, in East Bumblefuck Arizona, with his arm in a sling and his head on fire, across from one Seraphina Parris (another suppressed giggle) who with superhuman alacrity was scarfing down a double order of Belgian waffles with strawberries, whipped cream, ice cream, and syrup.
Lyle stared at her. She remained oblivious, or at least pretended to, serenely shoveling in another mouthful of waffle. Frustrated at his lack of headway with this approach, Lyle cast his eyes down to stare dejectedly into his coffee, which he had not yet touched. It was black, but he could see globules of grease floating on its surface, putting him in mind of a gasoline spill. Fuck. Mind keeps wandering. Distracted. Still druggy. Shouldn't be out of bed, really.
Seraphina had awoken him at 7 AM that morning, helped him out of bed and into the bathroom (which he had found less mortifying than he would have thought), checked his bandages, and herded him into the darkly tinted back seat of the car, cuffing his right hand to the dry cleaning bar. That had been two hours ago. After an hour and a half of driving that would have done Mario Andretti proud, she pulled into the parking lot of an isolated roadside diner and announced that she was going to have a large plate of waffles. Since his arm was stiff and he was tired of hearing her alternately belt out or hum softly along to Madonna's Immaculate Collection, he did not put up a fight, or even ask her what the fuck was going on, which he most certainly would have under any other circumstances.
He had nearly passed out when he stood up initially getting out of the car, and she had caught him, throwing her arm around his waist in a way other people would have interpreted as an intimate gesture. She grinned into his face as blackness danced at the edges of his vision, and silently showed him the gun in its holster at her side, concealed under her fuzzy, marginally ratty sweater. She didn't have to say it. Don't try anything.
Although his brain was still foggy from the drugs, questions plagued him. Was she a Cleaner? A Sweeper? She wasn't like any he had ever met. Her clothes, for one thing. She had changed into jeans and the aforementioned ratty sweater, and was wearing a pair of witch-pointy, high heeled black leather boots. Her and Parker. Why do tall women insist on wearing heels? It wasn't that he was intimidated by her size. Oh, fuck no. It just irked him that she was a little taller than him now. Actually, he probably still had about a half inch on her. Inch maybe. Yeah.
He rubbed his eyes with his good hand and groaned. Brain spinning out of control. Fuck. Keep it together.
Who the fuck was this woman? If she was a Cleaner or Sweeper she'd have been much more careful with him. She wasn't even looking at him, she was mopping up leftover syrup with a piece of bacon, not a care in the fucking world. She hadn't spoken to him since they had left … wherever it was they had spent the night. He really couldn't remember details. Just that she had injected him with something. Fucking bitch drugged him.
He couldn't really muster the energy to be angry. He glanced up at her again. She was trying to get the waitress's attention for the check. Lyle still hadn't touched his coffee.
"Where are we going?"
It was the first time either of them had spoken since they had left (Seraphina's rousing rendition of "Vogue" notwithstanding), and he noted with satisfaction that he seemed to have startled her. Recovering herself, she smiled and shrugged.
"I told you. Back."
"And then what?" He was not sure he wanted the answer. She shrugged again, still smiling, always smiling. Fucking creepy bitch. The waitress approached, check in hand. She had enormous, preternaturally frosted yellow hair and long blue fingernails. Her nametag read "Flo." Lyle leaned his head on his hand and fixed her with a glazed-over stare that he honestly meant to be threatening.
"Flo" fixed them both with a stern, disapproving, and distrustful look as she handed the check over to Seraphina. She looked from Lyle's bandaged arm to
Seraphina's bruised throat to the plate the size of a trashcan lid where the waffles had been and then back to Lyle. Fuck you, lady. Lyle's mind silently blew a loud, wet raspberry at Flo. Everyone so fucking judgmental. Bastards.
Seraphina reached into her sweater and pulled out a twenty, which she plunked cheerily down on the table. She slid herself happily out of the booth and favored Flo with a winning smile. Flo said nothing, but scooped up the twenty and backed away. Seraphina held out her hand to Lyle. He stared at it blankly.
"Come on, honey," she said. He strained to hear condescension in her voice. No. She sounded like she meant it. Honey. What the fuck.
Against his better judgment, he took her hand and rose painfully to his feet. After a moment, apparently satisfied that he would not fall on his ass, she inclined her head ever so slightly towards the door. Lyle preceded her, his steps heavy. Back to the fucking car. Maybe at least she'd change the CD.
Ahh. 100 percent better. Waffles do the trick every time. Bitch waitress, though. I hate people who give me attitude.
Lyle fixed her with a pathetic glance as she re-cuffed him to the dry-cleaning rack. She wasn't sure if it was sincere or not. Might have been. Too fucking bad. His druggy-hangover would subside soon, and she wasn't taking any chances. Ah. Whitney Houston, perhaps? She really hoped her kooky antics were beginning to wear on him. Her throat was getting sore. Her kooky antics were surely beginning to wear on her.
She was almost positive he was starting to let his guard down. The gun was regrettable, but necessary. He understood that. But otherwise she was truly doing her best to be disarming in a non-threatening, charmingly eccentric, feminine kind of way. Kind of Bridget Jones meets Niccolo Macchiavelli. It was a matter of time. Trust was a lot to ask for under the circumstances. And she could only drag out her return to the Centre for so long before Raines got suspicious and bellowed at the top of his black lungs for a team of Cleaners to finish her job for her.
She snuck a glance at Lyle in the rearview mirror as she pulled out of the parking lot and back onto the desert highway. He was staring at her, and he met her eyes immediately, holding eye contact, a challenge thrown down before her. The hangover was wearing off, it would appear. He was like a fucking pit bull. Eye contact. Very important with vicious dogs. She smiled at him in a simpering, girly kind of way before returning her attention to the road. Motherfucker. Just when you think you're making progress.
Mentally berating herself for being too cocky, she turned up the car stereo. Ah, but I do love this song.
She could see Lyle roll his eyes in the rearview mirror as tinkling synthesizer filled the car. I do in fact believe the children are our future. That's right. Nothing to be scared of. Just me. Go ahead and try something. Silly, eccentric Seraphina.
Ha. That name is so fake.