Holy shit this chapter is long. BTW, I don't anything FDTD related, although if Seth needs some company he can have mine...heh heh.

Special thanks to a1iciaxoxo for reviewing. Keep it coming, girl, I need it!

And in case your wondering, I'm not really sure what the title of this chapter means. It just sounded good.

Eight: The Other Man's Grass

When Seth came back from the Laundromat, Augusta was watching the news on the local station. She switched it off quickly when he came through the door.

"What was it?" he asked.

"Nothing," she said, obviously lying. Then, "Listen, I'm...sorry, about before."

A dark eyebrow arched.

"I was rude to you. Let's face it, I was being a total bitch. And you were very nice to wash my clothes for me." She paused. "Are they still in one piece?"

He lifted them up. "I wasn't sure if I should put them in the dryer," he said, "so I figured you should hang them up to dry in the bathroom."

She stood up, and took the clothes to go and do as he said. When she came back, he was watching the news.

"Private detectives, huh?" Seth said with a smirk. "So the pigs can't catch us, and they have to hire rent-a-cops."

"Private detectives are commonly called dicks, I think," she corrected him. "Security guards are rent-a-cops."

He gave her a slight smile before turning off the television. She sat back down on the couch and drank deeply from the Jack she had poured herself. He noticed she filled his glass, too.

"So, are you trying to get me drunk so you can take advantage of me?" he asked, lifting his glass.

She just looked at him. "I don't think any woman can take advantage of you, Seth."

"Well, you're right," he said, his voice rather dark. "Not anymore, anyway."

There was a heavy pause. "Tell me about Xanny," Augusta said softly, leaning closer.

"Why?" Still dark, still low. To realize how angry he was at her, only made him angrier for letting her have that power over him.

"I told you about Marcos. Tit for tat."

He glanced down at her. Her hair had mostly dried and was feathering around her face in light tendrils. She really didn't look that much like Xanny-her face had always been so hard, never soft and open like this.

"She was my girlfriend. Although in the lives of thieves, you don't really get to date. Your woman either runs with you or waits for you in an apartment and you send her money and visit her every now and again. She ran with us. Ritchie didn't like her because she could take him."

When the lull didn't look like it was going to let up, Augusta asked, "Did you love her?"

Seth shrugged. "I thought I did." He looked down at Augusta, who was leaning on her arms, her legs curled away from him. Damn, that woman had legs to the ceiling. Xanny's legs had been like that, but never so smooth, so well cared-for. "Guess that'll teach me, huh?"

"Do I really look like her?" Augusta asked, although it sounded like something she'd asked before.

Seth raised his hand, his fingers brushing her chin. "You have her cheeks, her nose, her lips...but your eyes are different."

"How different?"

"Yours are...soft." And before he knew what he was doing, he leaned forward and kissed her.

She kissed back. He could taste the Jack on her tongue, knew she'd probably had more than just the glass he'd seen her drinking when he'd come back. She was on her knees, on the couch, her chest pressing into his, his coat having fallen open and exposing her chest. The scars Xanny had always carried were gone, and her skin was smoother than anything he'd ever felt. Before he knew what he was doing, he was pressing her down into the thin cushions of the couch, her body so naked against his he thought he might burst through his pants. She had shed his coat, it lay on the floor, forgotten. The couch was just long enough for him to stretch himself out on top of her, at his full length.

He tried to tell himself to stop, that it was a mistake, that she wasn't in her right mind, and that he wasn't going to take advantage of her. His hands trailed down her thighs, down her calves, feeling the firm muscle and skin under his calloused fingers. She purred in the back of her throat as his hands came back up and he settled himself between her legs. Her fingers had found the buttons of his vest and were undoing them, reaching inside, her fingernails grazing his ribs, pinching his nipples. Something trailed his tattoo, all the way to his neck. Then he realized it wasn't her hand, but her tongue.

It had been too long for him. She was too warm, too soft, too willing. He couldn't stop himself. Or maybe, he told himself, just before he lost his last coherent thought, he just wouldn't, because it felt too damn good.

%%%%%%%%%%

Five o'clock came very quickly. Sleep had never been much of a problem for her-she fell fast and she woke quickly. Being in this strange place, she hardly slept at all and worried she would be tired for the trip, but found her adrenaline pumping energy into her body the second the mounted the Harley Marcos had provided for her.

Carl drove his car-it was a simple Oldsmobile, no frills, no flashiness. He didn't go for flashy when he was working. His greatest asset was to go unnoticed, and for that job, his car had always worked perfectly fine. Xanny had to smile in amusement at the way Marcos turned up his nose the second he slid inside-although Carl had replaced the air freshener only two days ago. Maybe he just wasn't used to the smell of cheapness.

She revved up the bike. It hummed like a hummingbird, a lovely sound. She slipped the simple black helmet over her head and flipped up the visor. She looked like a biker chick, wisps of her blue hair falling down her shoulders, her body well protected by a leather jacket and chaps over her jeans. In the places she would have to look for Seth and Ritchie, a tough appearance was the best way to go. She walked the bike closer to the car, before the huge garage doors were opened.

"Are you sure you don't want a better car?" she heard Marcos saying, his voice one of strained politeness. "I mean, nothing against this car, but are you sure it can make the trip? It's a lot of miles to-"

"It's fine," Carl said, a bit patronizing. "This car is fine, trust me. Your rich --- "Xanny revved the bike, blocking the word "ass" that she knew was going to come out of Carl's mouth "---won't be the worse for wear."

"So let's hit the road," she said cheerfully.

"Wait a second," Marcos called to her, reaching into his jacket pocket. He looked so strange, dressed in plain civilian duds---jeans, button-down shirt, white jacket. The only thing that gave him away was the platinum Rolex on his wrist. He pulled out a scarf. "Take this with you."

Xanny took it. It was made of thick purple silk, old and worn a bit around the edged. While it was a solid shade of purple, a paisley design had been etched into it, causing some of the silk to be raised against her fingers. It was a lovely scarf, if obviously well-used.

"She retired it recently, in favor of one I bought her," Marcos explained, "but she's had that forever. It will be a way for her to know that I sent you. Show her the scarf."

Xanny nodded, tucking it away into one of the inside pockets of her leather jacket. Zipping it safely away, she turned the bike toward the garage door, and it began to open.

Dawn had just cracked the sky. The fresh smell of morning reaching her nose and she realized how she missed watching the sun rise. While her waking hours had always been this early in prison, the windows didn't allow for much of a glimpse of the sky, and they never let anyone out onto the yard before 10 a.m. Her fists unclenched their grip on the handlebars, her chest expanded as her lungs filled with new air. It was a beautiful day.

She hit the accelerator and was off.

They'd made plans already, very clear and careful plans. Xanny was to go on ahead and see if she could pick up the trail. She was to appear to be alone, so that meant that Carl and Marcos had to follow at a safe distance. Xanny had every confidence that Carl would be able to follow her, even into the labyrinth into which she had to travel. He may appear to be a clean-cut businessman to his clients, but he could fade into the darker tones of a seedier life-style without having to change his clothes.

Moorseville was a good three hour's ride, and she didn't hesitate to let the bike, which was obviously brand new, stretch its legs. She was in the outskirts before breakfast, which her stomach promptly reminded her of with a low, churning growl.

Moorseville....Seth had had some kind of twisted fondness for this place. On and off, over the years, he'd used to keep his loot safe, but had to know it was getting less and less safe around here. More than likely, if the man had half-a-brain, he wouldn't be coming back.

A familiar diner, with its pink neon lights fading under the bright sun, came up on the side of the road. Xanny pulled in, parked and locked the bike, and went inside. She strode right up to the counter, ordered a ham and egg scramble and black coffee, and waited for her meal.

The three hours had gone fast. She was enjoying herself--she could tell by the way she was taping her fingers impatiently against the counter. She only had nervous energy when she was having a good time. Otherwise she was very good at keeping herself still. Although throughout the whole drive, she had not permitted herself to think about the thought of facing Seth again.

Marcos had a rather expensive radio system installed in the motorcycle so she could keep an ear out for local news. The dial automatically scanned for a local news station when the old one faded out, the speaker on a wireless system that curved over her ear inside the motorcycle helmet. She had forgotten to take it off when she went inside, and discovered it when she went to push back some hair that hung in her face. She slipped it off and put it in her jacket pocket.

There hadn't been anything worth listening to. While her radar was set for the Gecko name, she didn't allow herself a visual picture. The only one she was familiar with anymore was his mug shot, the one that had splayed across Marcos' desk last night. The one where he stared out at the world, his head cocked lightly to one side, his eyes pure arrogance, the rest of him expressionless. Sometimes, when she thought about that picture too long, she worried that he'd gone dead inside. The black and white tones made the picture seem so hollow. His face so empty.

She snapped out of it when her plate was put in front of her. She reached for the salt shaker, which was just out of her reach, when a rather large hand engulfed it and pushed it closer to her.

A man, rather big, hairless, and wearing a brown plaid shirt, smiled at her. He had all his teeth, but they didn't look to be in the absolute best of shape. Although, from the way he smiled at her, she didn't take him to be more than harmless. She could tell a lot about a person from the way they smiled.

That was what had first attracted her to Seth.

Pushing the thought away, she blinked, took the shaker, and put salt on her eggs. "Pepper?" she asked, keeping it light and friendly.

The man obliged. "Haven't seen you around."

"Just passing through," she said, her voice low but cheerful. "You a regular here?"

"Every day for as long as I can remember," the man answered, extending a hand. "Mickey."

She shook it. "Minnie," she answered back. He laughed, a big belly laugh.

"No, seriously."

"Alex," she said, not daring the Xanny nick-name. If anyone around here remembered her, it would stand out too clearly. Alex was common enough. She began to eat her eggs, knowing he would naturally extend the conversation.

"So where you headed?"

"Don't know. Wherever the wind blows." She took a heavy swig of her coffee. Damn if these little diners didn't know how to make good coffee. Who needed Marcos' gourmet? It had left a rather sour taste in her mouth that morning.

"Nice to meet you, Alex," he said, his speech polite enough. "You and your blue hair."

"Oh, you like it?" she said, half-handedly flinging one of the straggling locks. "I was thinking of changing it. The blue is getting a little old."

"No, it works on you. It's pretty-like a sky at midnight with a full moon."

"Oh, you're a poet?" she said, raising one eyebrow.

He shrugged. "Much as you can be in this little town. Actually, I own the local movie theater."

She was surprised. "That must be good business."

"Yeah, actually. Well, sometimes. It can dip down sometimes, too. Would you like to--" and then he was cut off by a commotion in the doorway.

It wasn't really a commotion, it was just two men, but she caught the air of panic around them instantly. One of them looked dead at Mickey, who had turned around to watch their entrance, and Mickey, without blinking, slid off his stool.

"Sorry, Alex...I'll be back," he said, although his voice was unsure. She watched them walk away into a table about ten feet from her.

Xanny turned away, straining her ear in their direction. The diner was pretty quiet for eight in the morning, the rush crowd having just passed through. She had to listen hard, but listening hard was something she was good at.

"....major fuckin' trouble, man..."

"....shot him dead! Bits and pieces of him..."

"....money gone. I mean gone, bro'. We're flat back where we..."

"...not going near him. Don't want anything more to do with it..."

"Damn Geckos. You shoulda known better than to fuck with them."

The name Gecko reached her ear like a trumpet. That and the words "money gone." She swallowed the last of her coffee, her eggs already gone, vacuumed down her throat, and stood up. She dropped a twenty on the counter, and started a slow walk toward the bathroom-she had to pass directly by the table in order to get there.

Just as she was right behind Mickey, she dropped something small out of her pocket. It was white and round and landed on the floor. She continued her walk into the bathroom, went into a stall, and slipped the radio speaker around her ear again.

Marcos was as good as his word. The listening device, from a friend of his at the CIA, worked perfectly.

"They slipped into Harold's like a couple of shadows, man. I even heard they had a girl with them who waited in the bar the whole time." Xanny guessed, from the scratchy tone, that it was the guy with the goatee who was talking. The voice seemed to match him. Used a silencer, would have gone completely unnoticed if that one with the glasses-"

"Ritchie," came a higher-pitched voice, probably the blond.

"Ritchie, yeah, suddenly went nuts and started punching out a guy at the bar for no reason. Then they left. Nobody even knew Rick was dead for almost an hour, and he'd already gotten mushy."

"That's sick man," Mickey said, a shudder in his voice. "So where are they now?"

"Dunno, they left town. Harold's is down for a while, though. Police everywhere. We'll have to find a different spot for Friday night."

She pulled out the earpiece. This sounded like gossip, not like fellow thugs commiserating over a loss. But at least she had a piece of the puzzle.

She came out of the bathroom to find her place cleared and her twenty gone. She smiled to herself and slipped out the door, not bothering to look back at Mickey, who had totally forgotten about her as well.

%%%%%%%%%%

Augusta sat in one of the two chairs that went with the tiny dining set in their hotel room suite, if it was legal to call it a suite. The chair was uncomfortable. The padding had a rough upholstery which was making a bumpy imprint onto her thighs, but at the moment, she didn't really care. She was too lost in thought.

What in the hell had she been thinking before? One minute she'd been terrified of Seth, and with good reason. A few shots of Jack later and she was doing him on the couch. And the worst of it was she had liked it. A lot. Whoever said it wasn't the size of the instrument but how you used it only had half the story. It did matter how you used it. But the size made it sweeter, like two scoops on an ice cream cone.

She shut her eyes, letting out a small moan. Seth was pretty wiped out, sleeping rather soundly on the couch. God, the man had been a machine. She would never have imagined him capable of so many rounds. Of course, he was a criminal. It had probably been a while for him, since he'd had any decent female to rub up against.

Which led her right back to her problem. This didn't change anything. She was still a hostage. She was not about to suddenly take up a gun and join their cause. She was not going to play along and act like one of the gang. And if she tried to run, Seth would shoot her down like a dog. Which just totally killed the magic.

It hadn't been tender or loving, not in the least. Sure, the kissing had been good, but it was kissing for the sake of cooperation, not for the sake of showing real affection. It was been animal-like---especially that last time, on her knees. That was probably the best one.

She blushed, so hot her ears burned. She covered her face with her hands, leaned forward, didn't know whether to laugh, cry or scream. Screaming was out, she told herself. She'd wake all of them up and no doubt they'd both be pissed. Seth for his loss of sleep, and Ritchie for realizing Seth hadn't woken him up for the night watch like he was supposed to. She'd never heard of a criminal sleeping so damn much.

What in the hell was she going to do? She sighed, deeply, rubbing the rest of the sleep out of her eyes. She had to stay awake, she had to think her way through this. She'd become a cliché, and she hated clichés with the worst kind of passion. She was a moll. Or worse, she was a whore.

This would probably be a lot easier, her evil voice said, if she wasn't still pleasantly sore from the night's exertions. Every time she moved, her body reminded her how good it had been.

She was going to burn in hell. Probably in a deeper circle than Seth or Ritchie. At least they didn't pretend to be something they weren't--- they were honest about their wicked ways. She, however, hadn't a fucking clue. Not a single, solitary, fucking clue.

She was startled out of her depressing reverie by the sound of Seth's breath abruptly changing. She turned around, saw him coming awake on the couch. He reached out, probably for her, although the simple act of sleeping together on the couch had meant they were practically on top of each other, which negating the need for reaching out. When he realized he was alone, his head popped up, swung around, his eyes finally landing on her after some considerable straining.

"Hey," he said, a causal sort of greeting.

"Good morning," she said, her voice coming out coarse.

"You okay?"

"Just peachy," she said, turning away.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes. It took him a few minutes to wake himself up enough to stand up and walk over to her. He'd snuck a blanket off the other bed to cover them, unwilling to let her sleep on the couch alone, like she'd been willing to do, and equally unwilling to sleep with her in a bed right next to his brother. Or rather, she was totally unwilling in that respect. Things were bad enough, she didn't need the younger psycho waking up and finding his brother in grande---

He interrupted her thoughts. The blanket was wrapped around his waist. "Where are my pants?" he asked.

"There," she said, pointing at the other chair. "I borrowed them when I went over to the Laundromat."

He stared down at her. She wasn't look at him but she could feel his eyes. "The Laundromat?" he echoed.

"To get my stuff dryer quicker. That hanging in the bathroom bit wasn't going fast enough."

He picked up his pants. He smirked, and she knew he was picturing her in them. "How'd they fit?" he asked.

"They were a little wide around the waist," she admitted, "but the legs weren't too long."

He reached out, obviously feeling a great deal more intimate with her in the afterglow than she was, his fingers caressing her naked knee. "I'm not surprised," he said, his voice low, nearly affectionate.

She tolerated his touch, in spite of the flash of memories. She'd never known anyone to have such a fascination with her legs before. She knew they were pretty to look at, but beyond that, it just showed her how naive she was. She guessed that everybody had a fetish. She was a bit embarrassed to discover hers seemed to be about tattoos.

"Ritchie is still asleep," she said as his hand drifted away. Seth grunted. "He's gonna be a little pissed if we wake him up and he finds us like this," she added. "We'd better get dressed."

Seth looked at her, from where he'd shuffled over to the tiny coffee- maker. "You worried about being considerate of Ritchie's feelings?"

"I'm worried about him thinking I'm up for grabs," she said, her voice a little edgier than she'd intended, but no less than what she felt.

He seemed startled. "You're not," he said plainly.

Her mouth twitched, she looked away, then stood up and scooped her clothes off the chair. She slid on the jeans, as her shirt was already on and thoroughly buttoned down, covering her chest, which had been so carelessly exposed the night before. That was what probably had accelerated things.

"You okay?" he asked, the edge now in his voice.

"I'm fine. A little sore, but I'm fine."

"That's not what I mean."

She buttoned up her jeans, turned, looked at him. He seemed a bit angry, the way his brow was so deeply furrowed.

"You're really worried about the mental health of your hostage?" she asked, her voice getting colder by the second, in spite of the warning bells. "Because that's what I still am, you know. Your hostage."

He drew a breath. "Listen-"

"No," she snapped, holding up a hand. "No, I don't want to hear it. I'm not mad at you. You're a man, for chrissake. You just do what comes natural."

"Felt like it was pretty natural for you, too," he said, a bit of a grin flashing at her.

"Yeah, it was. But that's all it was, you know." She drew a breath. "I don't blame you or anything. And no, I'm not going to cry rape. You didn't rape me."

"I know that."

"But..." she trailed off, sliding down into the chair again. "I'm not..." Again. "I don't..." Dammit, no words seemed right. "I'm not one of you, you know. I won't ever be."

"I know that, too," he said, a little sadly.

"You convinced now that I'm not Xanny?" she asked.

"Yeah. Completely." He turned away, finished making the coffee, and then went into the other room to use the bathroom, get dressed, and wake Ritchie. She drank all the coffee in the pot by the time he came back, and had brewed him another with the remaining little packet. There was barely enough for both him and Ritchie, who was particularly bitchy, because he'd slept too long.