Disclaimer: I do not own any of Stephen King's characters.
Author's Note: Oh boy. When I read fanfiction.net isn't allowing 'chatroom text' even in disclaimers and author's notes, I freaked. Where's the fun in that, huh? Off to Secret Window madness!
PineAppleLint
* * *
Zoë took a deep breath as she walked up the creaky, ominous steps of Rainey's front porch. Each squeak was like a cry for her to just stop, turn around, and burn rubber out of there. But that just wasn't going to happen. She had to keep up her end of the deal, whether she hated this whole fucking mess or not.
Yup. Her life was falling apart perfectly.
And you sat there and let it happen, sweetheart. It's all you. Your life's the fuckee, you're the fucker.
Clearing her throat, she lifted her fist to knock solidly on the door but was interrupted in carrying out the task when the door flew open in front of her. She paused, her hand still in mid air, surprised out of her wits.
Mort Rainey, his face usual a mask of calm, quirky serenity, was now stormy as he scowled down at her. He wore faded blue jeans and a plain navy blue t-shirt fraying at the sleeves. There were holes in the knees of his jeans, and his bare toes protruded from the bottom cuffs.
"I heard what he asked you to do," Mort said angrily, "And I will not accept this. I just want to be left alone, dammit."
"Have a problem with it? Then let's talk."
"No. Just get off of my property and leave me the hell alone." He cracked his jaw and snatched his glasses off of his nose, furiously beginning to clean them on a corner of his shirt.
Zoë felt the irrational streak in her finally awaken, and she walked straight into his house, brushing past him as she shrugged off her coat.
"What do you think you're doing?" he asked, his voice growing louder by the minute, "Get out of my house!" She plopped down on the couch and propped her feet up on the coffee table just to spite him. A bag of Doritos was knocked over by her foot and rained down onto the floor, the orange chips lightly dusting the floor with their cheesy mist.
"Aren't you going to offer me a drink, Mr. Rainey?" Zoë wondered aloud, smirking at him, "Where has your manners gone?"
She watched as he clenched his teeth together and released a pent up breath, hissing it through his mouth. "You want to talk?" he replied, "Fine, then we'll talk. Go ahead, Ms. Oltie. Talk away."
"Shooter is going to kill people if I don't intervene," she pointed out wearily; suddenly feeling extremely tired all at once. Slouching down on the couch, she sighed before saying, "I didn't ask for this, Morton. You know I didn't. The last thing I want is for you to be upset, but its innocent people we're talking about here."
Mort considered this for a moment, massaging his temple and sitting on the second stair of the staircase before saying, "Continue."
"And now Shooter won't even bother you anymore. He promised me…"
"That bastard promises nothing," Mort snapped in irritation, "He's going to come out on top somehow. I just don't know what he wants. He's manipulating you…me…he wants something."
"And it's up to us to figure it out?" she pressed.
Mort shrugged, clearly not one for answers. "You shouldn't be here," he said at last after a period of thoughtful silence, "It's not safe for you."
"I'm not afraid of you, Mort. I'm scared shitless of Shooter. But he won't back out of this deal. We just have to tread lightly…make sure we don't do something to piss him off."
"What do you want to do then?" Mort laughed bitterly, "Hang out like long lost friends? Watch old movies and talk about the good old days? It doesn't work like that." He made his way over to the couch and sat next to her, getting comfortable before she replied.
"But as long as I'm here, you're Shooter-free. A good deal, huh? Peace of mind and good company rolled into one," she joked. He raised his eyebrows at her and frowned.
"Do you really care so much about my welfare?"
"You're a good guy, Mort. I can see that. But that dark part of you is going to kill again. I can feel it. I've spent years helping bring murderers down. I thought I saw it all…"
"Until you met me," Mort finished, gazing at her intently.
"Well, yeah."
"I wish I wasn't like this," he said, wincing, "You don't understand how it feels. I wake up every morning wondering if I killed the woman I saw in the supermarket the night before, if I strangled a helpless kid and didn't remember doing so…"
Zoë touched his hand and jumped when he stopped talking and entwined his warm, tanned fingers into hers. He lifted his head again and stared at her with those dark, fathomless brown eyes.
You like it, admit it, whore.
I am not a whore. And why would I like it? He's a killer, for God's sakes…
Just advance on him, slow and easy. You know he wants it. After all, it's been a while since you've had…
Enough. I don't have to take this shit from you.
"Thank you for actually caring," Mort laughed, gently rubbing a thumb across her palm in slow, easy caresses, "I don't know a lot of women who'd agree to terms they don't like in order to get rid of my other personality."
"Mort, I think I'm the only woman who'd do that."
"Yeah, that's the sad part, really," he said with a smile. She opened her mouth to reply but stopped. All she could think about were those fingers running across her flesh so slowly, so intimately. She was getting goosebumps and couldn't hide them. Mort noticed and his smile widened a bit. And that smile made her undeniably nervous.
"So would you like that drink?" he questioned, arching an eyebrow before running a hand across the stubble on his chin. She nodded silently and he let go of her hand, causing relief and disappointment to lace her veins, and he headed towards the kitchen.
Pin him to the fridge.
Just stop talking, please, no more…
Can't you feel all that tension? That's called desire. You're full of it. Same for Mort, cupcake. Now go into that kitchen and give him something to write about.
No damn way.
Mort reappeared with two cans of Mountain Dew and handed one to her. Wiping a bit of sweat from her brow, she popped the top, taking a hearty swig before resting the cold can against her hot forehead.
He stared at her, waiting for her to say something. "Thanks," she said weakly. He still didn't look satisfied.
"What…what do you want to do?" he asked hesitantly, "Still want to watch those old movies?"
Zoë's muscles relaxed a bit before she responded, "As long as we get to talk about those good ol' days we are supposed to have, right?"
He nodded with a chuckle, "All right. You look through the cabinet of movies over there," he pointed to the cabinet to the right of the fireplace, "And I'll make the popcorn. Sound good?"
I suppose, Morty boy… it's a date.
* * *
Content Zoë yawned and took her eyes off of the television screen for one moment to glance at her watch. 1:24 am. They had been watching the old classic Sorry, Wrong Number starring Barbara Stanwyck and Burt Lancaster, the third movie they had gotten their hands on throughout the evening. Before that, it had been Vertigo and The Birds, two Alfred Hitchcock favorites of Mort's. She would have never suspected him to be the old movie sort of guy.
Glancing over at him, she smiled when she found his head lolled to the side and his eyes gently closed, his breathing slowed from sleep. Mort was leaning some of his weight on her, and his long hair brushed her right shoulder. Surprisingly enough, he had opened up to her in the middle of Vertigo, talking with her about his childhood, discussing things he loved about Tashmore Lake even though the citizens feared him, asking about her own life and where she had come from. Of course she complied in answering. For each of his puns, she had a retort. For each of her sarcastic jokes, he finished the punch line. They made quite the pair.
You'd make a better pair upstairs under those sheets.
Stop it. I've had enough. Shut the hell up already!
Look at him lying there, all defenseless. Touch his knee. Drive him crazy.
We're friends now, I guess. Friends don't do that to friends, dammit.
Pulease, honey. You are sickening, you know that? You've forgotten all about relationships. Zoë Oltie, you are one fucked up woman.
What will it take to get you out of my head? she shrieked inwardly, What will make you shut your goddamn mouth?! Do I have to cut you out like guts to a trout? WHAT?
Just kiss him. One innocent little kiss, darling. That won't harm anybody, now will it? And then I'll be satisfied…for now.
No!
He's asleep…he won't know. Just to feel those perfect lips would be such pleasant torture.
I'm not the 'pleasant torture' kind of girl.
Suddenly the voice began to chant, getting louder and louder all the while she winced and held her head…do it, do it, do it, do it, do it…
Her willpower broke and she found herself leaning towards Mort. Placing a single finger underneath his stubbly chin, she angled her head just right and brushed her lips past his. Suddenly, she found herself lingering a bit, whispering a bit back and forth across his mouth until Zoë forced herself to sit back and stare in terror at his sleeping form...
…which wasn't asleep any longer. Those brown eyes were gazing back at her, part in alarm, part in curiosity, and part in lust.
"What was that for?" he asked hoarsely.
* * *
I'm cruel, I know. Hope you liked it! Please comment, I love hearing what you have to say, dear readers!