Title: Redemption Song
Author: Kaitlyn
Rating: R
Summary: Burning lungs, dirty dancing, nightswimming and second chances...Loud music, tainted smoke, fiery kisses and racing hearts. Everyone remembers what it was like to be 18. Established R/R and eventual C/M.
This will be the last chapter that includes on-the-road stuff. Chapter 21 will land them in California.
Something just occurred to me while I was blow drying my hair the other night and getting ready to go out. I always assumed it was understood that this story took place in modern (2003-2004) but while the characters were younger. Therefore, the 'fro and Flock of Seagulls would be out, as would the clothes and whatnot. I guess I always took that for granted while writing but forgot to mention it. Oh well, the story was intended for the characters to be viewed with modern looks, but it's your imagination!
I am currently working on 2 other pieces in addition to this one. Both of those will debut on this site eventually, but as I'm starting classes again in just under 3 weeks, it's hard to say when that "eventually" will be. They won't be uploaded simultaneously and most likely the first one wont be until this one's finished. The first chapter of both have been completed and they are both very different from this story, as well as from each other. Just wanted to give an excuse for the slowness of updates in advance, in case that happens :-)
Also, please excuse the very unlikely encounter between Ross and "the man" in this chapter. You'll know what it is when you read it :-) I understand how unrealistic it is to happen, but I needed to include it somewhere.
AND, before I get reviews and emails about how Ross is not as violent or as aggressive as depicted in this chapter, I will say that 1) we HAVE seen Ross angry and aggressive (ie: TOW Emma Cries, TOW The Bullies or TOW No One's Ready) and 2) it's my story :-)
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"Well, Pheebs, you were sort of right. Topeka was a pretty neat little place," Rachel admitted from the back of the van.
They'd only left it about 3 hours ago, but a part of her already missed it a little. There was an undisturbed simplicity about it that she'd liked and almost yearned for now. Topeka had made her feel isolated but somehow concurrently heightened her sense of closeness to her friends and to Ross. It made her feel lost to the rest of the earth, and therefore made her issues seem less worldly and less socially unacceptable. As absurd has it may have been, being in Topeka made her feel cloaked in a sheet of invisibility to anyone who might have judged her or expected more, and as she hurtled faster towards the West Coast, she craved the feel of California but also resented the spotlight she feared it would restore on her problems.
"Okay, we've got some options," Chandler announced from behind the driver's seat, looking over every so often at the road map Monica had laid out before them. "We can either go for about 6 more hours and end up somewhere in Utah for the night, or we can drive for another 10 and spend the night in Vegas."
"Vegas?!" Joey screeched.
"Yes, Joe, prostitution is legal there," Chandler answered before his friend had even asked. Joey seemed offended. "You also have to be 18, and you've got a few months left, my man. Ross and I, on the other hand..."
"Hey!" Monica yelled from beside him, smacking him on the side of the head with an extra folded-up map.
"Don't even think it," Rachel warned Ross concurrently in the back of the car, waving her finger threateningly in his face but also smiling a bit. Joey chuckled smugly, having earned his justice.
"Well I say we just go straight through to Vegas," Rachel proffered from the back, her legs draped over Ross' as she nonchalantly filed her fingernails and thoughtlessly twirled a piece of hair around her forefinger. Ross, noticing her relaxed deportment, leaned over and whispered into her ear.
"Maybe all you needed was a good lay to unwind a little," he joked, referring to their exhibition in the pool the night before. She scoffed and swatted him hard on the shoulder, raising a loud "ouch" from him and a sulking pout. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he saw that she was smiling.
"Anyone oppose?" Monica asked, referring to Rachel's motion to plow on through. The car rang silent and Chandler stepped on the accelerator, determined to make it to Las Vegas before it was too late for them to enjoy their stay there.
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This hotel, just like this town, was much different from the one before it. It was located on one of the main drags of Vegas, surrounded by the ceaseless hustle-and-bustle of flashing lights, loud music, boisterous outfits and bloated cash-registers. Granted it was a small, loft motel located above a nice restaurant, but it was clean and well-kept and provided a great view and location.
By the time they pulled in, it was already past what could have been considered a normal dining hour and they'd stopped for a big lunch earlier that day, anyway. Tired but determined, all anyone really wanted to do was dress up and paint the town red to celebrate their last night on the road (for at least a week, anyway).
Rachel dressed up in a short white mini-skirt and a simple black tank-top with black stiletto heels, while Monica wore a pair of nice pants and a printed tube-top. Ross gave her an unsteady and disapproving look when she came down to the lobby adjusting it underneath her armpits, but she dismissed it with a brush of her hand and a roll of her eyes.
"Where're Phoebe and Joey?" Chandler asked, after the four of them had been waiting for over 10 minutes.
"Oh, that's right, she told me she and Joey were going to stay in and watch a movie because they were tired. I gave them the name of that club we're going to be at, though, so they said they might come by later," Monica clarified.
"You know, that reminds me, why are we always going to 'clubs'?" Rachel asked, slight annoyance filling her voice. "I mean, we ARE only 17 and 18. Why can't we ever just go out to dinner and a movie like normal people our age?"
"What's wrong?" Ross ask, somewhat concerned. "Do you not want to go?"
"No," she conceded, waving her hand and giving in. "If everyone wants to then it's fine. I just, you know..." She trailed off and never finished the end of her sentence. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what her hang-up was, though. Ever since the "encounter" that had taken place months before with her sister in a club, she had been a bit skeptical about the entire concept. She had kept it to herself in Indianapolis, but she knew Vegas to have a much more vibrant nightlife than Indianapolis and something about that made a difference to her. It felt so impersonal here and that made her uncomfortable. Ross stepped in closer to her and put an arm on her shoulder.
"Hey, look, we don't have to go if you don't want to. We can just catch a late dinner and-"
"No, really, it's fine," she insisted. "Come one, forget I mentioned it. We all got dressed up so let's go have fun!" She tried her best to sound enthusiastic in her last statement, but didn't do such a great job concealing her true discomfort. Ross walked with his arm around her the whole way. Every so often, he could feel her shiver underneath his touch.
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Chandler and Ross hadn't even had to use their fake IDs to get into the club. The bouncer, if you could even call him that, since he didn't appear to be "bouncing" nearly anyone, didn't even look twice at them. He didn't stamp their hands, either. This meant he not only thought them all to be over 18, but also over 21, meaning all the drinks they wanted. Somehow, though, based on the incident before leaving the hotel, no one really thought they'd want to drink much that night. Rachel's apparent anxiety had put somewhat of a damper on the evening and now they were mostly all just going through the motions-- going out and dancing because it seemed like the thing to do in Vegas (besides the obvious choice of gambling, which was out do to the necessity of saving their funds).
The club was called Madame Nuit, which Ross informed everyone translated to Mrs. Night. The name wasn't particularly inventive, but then again, it was doubtful anyone besides him was paying any attention to it at all. On the inside, it was actually pretty classy. There were several black leather booths lingering around the outskirts of the dance floor, along with a few decorative displays of working fountains and neon art. The decor screamed early 90's, but it was fun. It probably just hadn't been renovated since it first opened.
"You want a drink?" Ross asked Rachel after wandering aimlessly around the floor once, not as hopeful of her complying as of just getting her to say anything at all. She shook her head no and binded her arms tightly around herself as if she were cold.
"You want my blazer? I checked it at the door, but-"
"No, I'm not cold," she cut him off, shaking her head again. She swallowed deeply and looked around them with almost a hint of paranoia in her eyes. She looked as if she were a combination of waiting for someone deathly ill. Ross was beginning to be genuinely concerned.
"Look, Rach, something's obviously very wrong. If you wont tell me what it is, can I at least take you back home? I can tell you don't want to be here."
"No, Ross, it's not that. I do want to be here, I just...I don't know," she admitted, shaking her head. "I just have this weird feeling."
"What kind of feeling?" he implored, leading her to a table near the corner.
"It's like I'm cold for no reason. No, it's not even cold, it's just like...it's like the kind of cold you are when you're sick. It's like the chills, even though it's hot as Hell in here. I feel like someone's watching us..me..." She stopped, realizing how ridiculous she sounded. She almost even cracked a smile. "God, this is so stupid, I'm sorry."
"No, maybe you are sick. I think we should really just-"
"Oh my God..."
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She'd spotted him.
He'd been watching her ever since she'd arrived that night, not 10 minutes ago. He hadn't been able to believe his eyes. His initial sentiment had been fear, turning over in his mind all the possibilities of her spotting him or, God forbid, even recognizing him. Part of him was sickened by himself--hadn't truly realized the implications of the act he'd committed in the name of his sick, twisted dementia until he'd spotted her again. Another part, though, had felt hot and heavy and impious immediately. His breath had quickened, his pulse racing and his palms sweating. A loud, obstinate ringing had begun in his ears and he'd been able to focus on nothing but her.
He'd been obsessed with her. His passion had grown quickly that night so many months ago, and in the time it had taken to cross the room to where she was, he had been fanatical.
He watched her mouth, now, noting how her lips parted slightly when she was scared or unsure. He watched her touch him--that man she was with--and to say he envied that man didn't do justice to the intensity at which he loathed him for his effortless proximity to her. What he'd give to have that man's arm--the one that she touched so gently and innocently. What he wouldn't give to see her through that man's eyes--ones that looked at her face and saw an equilibrium of passion and lust and love, not fear and disgust.
But now she'd spotted him, and all thoughts of her would be indefinitely suspended.
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"Oh my God..."
"What? What is it?" he asked suddenly, filled with fear and anxiety. He grabbed her hands across the table. Her gaze was locked over his shoulder, obviously fixated on something on the other side of the room. He turned to look where she was looking, but saw nothing he considered to be out of the ordinary.
"Ross..." she whispered, grasping his hands tightly and digging her fingernails into his skin.
"What? What? Rachel, you're scaring me," he warned, the panic setting in and manifesting itself in his voice.
"Jesus, I can't...I don't understand...I can't believe this," she muttered, and it seemed as if she didn't even understand what she was talking about. Her gaze was still intensely fixed on something off in the distance.
"Rachel, what's wrong? Tell me what's wrong? Do you see someone you know?" Know him? KNOW HIM?
"Ross, it's him," she stated simply, finally tearing her eyes away and gazing into Ross'. She swallowed deeply, burning her irises into his and almost daring him to ask her "who". He did not have to.
Ross was up in a flash, standing and poised facing the direction in which Rachel had been looking. One hand was placed on her shoulder, either for her comfort of for his own, he was not sure which. He scanned the crowd with his eyes, not understanding at first why he could not spot the man on his own. He surely wouldn't have to ask Rachel which one he was. Not only could he not do that to her, but surely he could pick out a man so deviously repulsive and distorted from a crowd of regular people. The devil is not a red man with horns and a tail, though.
In a moment, time stood still. The music stopped thumping inside Ross' head. The dozens of people around him faded away into oblivion, ceasing their gyrations and cavalier laughter. The floor fell out from beneath him and the room disintegrated away like burnt ash from coal. There was nothing--no one--but the man in the black shirt who was making a run for it. Their eyes met in that moment, and Ross saw it. He saw it in the way the man moved. He saw it in the dilation of his pupils. He saw everything Rachel had seen that nice--everything she had experience--and he saw it in a hot flash while the rest of the world waited.
Then he was off.
Ross did not feel his feet move from where they were planted on the floor beside Rachel. He did not remember bounding across the dance floor or how he'd come to be pinning this man to the ground, his arm across his throat, strangling the breath from his lungs. He'd blacked out in one moment and come to in the next, but nothing in between mattered, because a life was now in his hands and he just could not find it within himself to show mercy.
"Yo, this mother fucker's INSANE!" yelled a young white man who'd been standing beside the man underneath Ross when he'd attacked him. The crowd parted a bit, sorted murmurings of "give them room" and "watch out" floating around the room. For long, a small circle had been formed around the two men on the floor, everyone in the club having stopped to watch. That's when the world stopped waiting and Ross started remembering.
"I'll KILL YOU!" he yelled, baring down on the man's throat with no intentions of letting up. The man fought for air beneath him, flailing his arms and legs about desperately but making no movement to fight back.
"You're going to kill him!" someone yelled from the back of the crowd. Ross did not care. In fact, he knew this. He had every intention to carry on.
"Say something you fucking sick bastard!" Ross demanded, gritting his teeth and letting spittle fly from his mouth to the man's face as he screamed. He felt his knee pressing into the man's stomach, flattening and piercing his organs. Still he could not stop himself.
So someone did it for him.
Ross felt strong arms lift him by his shoulder to a standing position. He tried to leap forward at the man before he was able to stand back up and possibly get away, but he was being restrained. Chandler.
"What the hell, man!? Let me go!" he demanded, fighting against his friend and struggling vigorously but to no avail. "It's the guy! That's him!"
"I know!" Chandler yelled back, still using all of his strength to contain Ross. "I know, I saw the whole thing! You can't do this here, Ross!"
"Why the Hell not!?" He was still staring at the man, watching him as he steadily and disorientedly got up from the floor and wiped a bit of blood from the corner of his mouth. His eyes had never filled with so much hate. He felt as if bile were welling up there just by looking at the man.
Finally, when Chandler did not answer, he began to understand. Police could get involved. He could spend a night in jail. His parents would find out. Things would get complicated, and for what? This man was not worth the effort it would take to knock him out or kill him, much less the ramifications. Ross stopped his rebelling from Chandler's hold and was soon released. He did not move his eyes from the man, though, and he did take a step towards him, getting directly in his face and pointing a finger between his eyes.
"You listen to me," he began, loathe and disgust pouring from his words. "You're one FUCKED UP son of a bitch, and there's only one thing stopping me from strangling you to death right here and now," he continued, saying his word steadily and slowly so that not just the man could hear him, but everyone else in the club, "and that's that you're not even worth the fucking energy it would take."
While he'd been talking, Ross had subconsciously grabbed the man's shirt collar and was now holding the fabric clenched in his fist. The man remained stoic until Ross finished.
"Fucking energy, eh? Is that what you use on her?" the man asked, grinning smugly at his own pun and deriving his sick pleasure from the hatred he saw building up in Ross' face and the revulsion in his voice.
"You goddamn sick son of a..." Ross spat through a clenched jaw, jerking the man backwards with the one hand on his collar and then winding up, connecting his fist with the underside of the man's chin. The man's head flew backwards, his whole body rocked by the punch and his skin busting open at the point of impact. His blood soaked Ross' fist. Chandler put a hand on Ross' shoulder, letting him know that was enough and signaling that it was now probably time to leave.
Ross made a motion as if he were going to spring at the man again, but stopped himself, shaking his head.
"No, you know what? You're not worth it."
"Oh, come on!" the man provoked. His face was half covered with his own blood and Ross' spit. He'd been backed into a corner, though, and now wanted to make this man suffer. He wanted to make him suffer for taking the thing he wanted the most but would never be able to have. "I fucked your woman! That's not worth another hit?"
Ross' eyes widened. He couldn't even believe what he was hearing. Physical assault was no longer adequate for quenching the contempt he had for this man. In fact, there were no more synonyms to describe the feeling this man aroused within him. It was something so much deeper and hotter and heavier than hate or disgust. There were no word and no actions. He was numb. So he turned to walk away.
"Hey! Ross!" the man shouted. Ross turned around "That's your name, right?" Ross said nothing. "Well, you were right."
"What?" Ross spat.
"You were right. I AM a sick son of a bitch. I'm fucked up," the man admitted, shrugging and even laughing. The entire club was at a stand-still, listening to him talk. "I DID rape her." A collective gasp filled the air. "That's right," he confirmed, nodding his head and looking around at everyone. "I raped her. It doesn't matter, though, Ross, and you know why?" He waited for an answer. Ross didn't give one. "I'm not the one who has to deal with it for the rest of my life. That's right, you heard me. I'm not the one who has to live KNOWING my first time was with a man I didn't know. I'm not the one who has to accept that my girlfriend got screwed by some douche-bag fuck-up while I was nowhere to be found. This isn't my problem, Rossy. This is YOUR problem." To accent the end of his speech, he pointed both his forefingers straight ahead at Ross.
Silence.
What do you say? What was there left to say? Ross had just been humiliated. He had just been told that his life was more or less a shame in front of a room of 70-something strangers. He'd just been given the opportunity to murder a thief and become an instant hero and he'd passed on it. What was the next step?
Not skipping a beat, he took a cloth napkin from the table at his side and tossed it to the man.
"Clean up your face," he whispered, waiting a beat and then turning on his heels. Rachel was waiting at the door. He walked slowly towards her, took her hand and paused to turn to the barkeeper. "Call the police."
And with that, they left.
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The devil is not a red man with horns and a tail, and the hero does not always have to sleigh the dragon.
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End Chapter 20. Continued in Chapter 21.
Author: Kaitlyn
Rating: R
Summary: Burning lungs, dirty dancing, nightswimming and second chances...Loud music, tainted smoke, fiery kisses and racing hearts. Everyone remembers what it was like to be 18. Established R/R and eventual C/M.
This will be the last chapter that includes on-the-road stuff. Chapter 21 will land them in California.
Something just occurred to me while I was blow drying my hair the other night and getting ready to go out. I always assumed it was understood that this story took place in modern (2003-2004) but while the characters were younger. Therefore, the 'fro and Flock of Seagulls would be out, as would the clothes and whatnot. I guess I always took that for granted while writing but forgot to mention it. Oh well, the story was intended for the characters to be viewed with modern looks, but it's your imagination!
I am currently working on 2 other pieces in addition to this one. Both of those will debut on this site eventually, but as I'm starting classes again in just under 3 weeks, it's hard to say when that "eventually" will be. They won't be uploaded simultaneously and most likely the first one wont be until this one's finished. The first chapter of both have been completed and they are both very different from this story, as well as from each other. Just wanted to give an excuse for the slowness of updates in advance, in case that happens :-)
Also, please excuse the very unlikely encounter between Ross and "the man" in this chapter. You'll know what it is when you read it :-) I understand how unrealistic it is to happen, but I needed to include it somewhere.
AND, before I get reviews and emails about how Ross is not as violent or as aggressive as depicted in this chapter, I will say that 1) we HAVE seen Ross angry and aggressive (ie: TOW Emma Cries, TOW The Bullies or TOW No One's Ready) and 2) it's my story :-)
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"Well, Pheebs, you were sort of right. Topeka was a pretty neat little place," Rachel admitted from the back of the van.
They'd only left it about 3 hours ago, but a part of her already missed it a little. There was an undisturbed simplicity about it that she'd liked and almost yearned for now. Topeka had made her feel isolated but somehow concurrently heightened her sense of closeness to her friends and to Ross. It made her feel lost to the rest of the earth, and therefore made her issues seem less worldly and less socially unacceptable. As absurd has it may have been, being in Topeka made her feel cloaked in a sheet of invisibility to anyone who might have judged her or expected more, and as she hurtled faster towards the West Coast, she craved the feel of California but also resented the spotlight she feared it would restore on her problems.
"Okay, we've got some options," Chandler announced from behind the driver's seat, looking over every so often at the road map Monica had laid out before them. "We can either go for about 6 more hours and end up somewhere in Utah for the night, or we can drive for another 10 and spend the night in Vegas."
"Vegas?!" Joey screeched.
"Yes, Joe, prostitution is legal there," Chandler answered before his friend had even asked. Joey seemed offended. "You also have to be 18, and you've got a few months left, my man. Ross and I, on the other hand..."
"Hey!" Monica yelled from beside him, smacking him on the side of the head with an extra folded-up map.
"Don't even think it," Rachel warned Ross concurrently in the back of the car, waving her finger threateningly in his face but also smiling a bit. Joey chuckled smugly, having earned his justice.
"Well I say we just go straight through to Vegas," Rachel proffered from the back, her legs draped over Ross' as she nonchalantly filed her fingernails and thoughtlessly twirled a piece of hair around her forefinger. Ross, noticing her relaxed deportment, leaned over and whispered into her ear.
"Maybe all you needed was a good lay to unwind a little," he joked, referring to their exhibition in the pool the night before. She scoffed and swatted him hard on the shoulder, raising a loud "ouch" from him and a sulking pout. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he saw that she was smiling.
"Anyone oppose?" Monica asked, referring to Rachel's motion to plow on through. The car rang silent and Chandler stepped on the accelerator, determined to make it to Las Vegas before it was too late for them to enjoy their stay there.
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This hotel, just like this town, was much different from the one before it. It was located on one of the main drags of Vegas, surrounded by the ceaseless hustle-and-bustle of flashing lights, loud music, boisterous outfits and bloated cash-registers. Granted it was a small, loft motel located above a nice restaurant, but it was clean and well-kept and provided a great view and location.
By the time they pulled in, it was already past what could have been considered a normal dining hour and they'd stopped for a big lunch earlier that day, anyway. Tired but determined, all anyone really wanted to do was dress up and paint the town red to celebrate their last night on the road (for at least a week, anyway).
Rachel dressed up in a short white mini-skirt and a simple black tank-top with black stiletto heels, while Monica wore a pair of nice pants and a printed tube-top. Ross gave her an unsteady and disapproving look when she came down to the lobby adjusting it underneath her armpits, but she dismissed it with a brush of her hand and a roll of her eyes.
"Where're Phoebe and Joey?" Chandler asked, after the four of them had been waiting for over 10 minutes.
"Oh, that's right, she told me she and Joey were going to stay in and watch a movie because they were tired. I gave them the name of that club we're going to be at, though, so they said they might come by later," Monica clarified.
"You know, that reminds me, why are we always going to 'clubs'?" Rachel asked, slight annoyance filling her voice. "I mean, we ARE only 17 and 18. Why can't we ever just go out to dinner and a movie like normal people our age?"
"What's wrong?" Ross ask, somewhat concerned. "Do you not want to go?"
"No," she conceded, waving her hand and giving in. "If everyone wants to then it's fine. I just, you know..." She trailed off and never finished the end of her sentence. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what her hang-up was, though. Ever since the "encounter" that had taken place months before with her sister in a club, she had been a bit skeptical about the entire concept. She had kept it to herself in Indianapolis, but she knew Vegas to have a much more vibrant nightlife than Indianapolis and something about that made a difference to her. It felt so impersonal here and that made her uncomfortable. Ross stepped in closer to her and put an arm on her shoulder.
"Hey, look, we don't have to go if you don't want to. We can just catch a late dinner and-"
"No, really, it's fine," she insisted. "Come one, forget I mentioned it. We all got dressed up so let's go have fun!" She tried her best to sound enthusiastic in her last statement, but didn't do such a great job concealing her true discomfort. Ross walked with his arm around her the whole way. Every so often, he could feel her shiver underneath his touch.
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Chandler and Ross hadn't even had to use their fake IDs to get into the club. The bouncer, if you could even call him that, since he didn't appear to be "bouncing" nearly anyone, didn't even look twice at them. He didn't stamp their hands, either. This meant he not only thought them all to be over 18, but also over 21, meaning all the drinks they wanted. Somehow, though, based on the incident before leaving the hotel, no one really thought they'd want to drink much that night. Rachel's apparent anxiety had put somewhat of a damper on the evening and now they were mostly all just going through the motions-- going out and dancing because it seemed like the thing to do in Vegas (besides the obvious choice of gambling, which was out do to the necessity of saving their funds).
The club was called Madame Nuit, which Ross informed everyone translated to Mrs. Night. The name wasn't particularly inventive, but then again, it was doubtful anyone besides him was paying any attention to it at all. On the inside, it was actually pretty classy. There were several black leather booths lingering around the outskirts of the dance floor, along with a few decorative displays of working fountains and neon art. The decor screamed early 90's, but it was fun. It probably just hadn't been renovated since it first opened.
"You want a drink?" Ross asked Rachel after wandering aimlessly around the floor once, not as hopeful of her complying as of just getting her to say anything at all. She shook her head no and binded her arms tightly around herself as if she were cold.
"You want my blazer? I checked it at the door, but-"
"No, I'm not cold," she cut him off, shaking her head again. She swallowed deeply and looked around them with almost a hint of paranoia in her eyes. She looked as if she were a combination of waiting for someone deathly ill. Ross was beginning to be genuinely concerned.
"Look, Rach, something's obviously very wrong. If you wont tell me what it is, can I at least take you back home? I can tell you don't want to be here."
"No, Ross, it's not that. I do want to be here, I just...I don't know," she admitted, shaking her head. "I just have this weird feeling."
"What kind of feeling?" he implored, leading her to a table near the corner.
"It's like I'm cold for no reason. No, it's not even cold, it's just like...it's like the kind of cold you are when you're sick. It's like the chills, even though it's hot as Hell in here. I feel like someone's watching us..me..." She stopped, realizing how ridiculous she sounded. She almost even cracked a smile. "God, this is so stupid, I'm sorry."
"No, maybe you are sick. I think we should really just-"
"Oh my God..."
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She'd spotted him.
He'd been watching her ever since she'd arrived that night, not 10 minutes ago. He hadn't been able to believe his eyes. His initial sentiment had been fear, turning over in his mind all the possibilities of her spotting him or, God forbid, even recognizing him. Part of him was sickened by himself--hadn't truly realized the implications of the act he'd committed in the name of his sick, twisted dementia until he'd spotted her again. Another part, though, had felt hot and heavy and impious immediately. His breath had quickened, his pulse racing and his palms sweating. A loud, obstinate ringing had begun in his ears and he'd been able to focus on nothing but her.
He'd been obsessed with her. His passion had grown quickly that night so many months ago, and in the time it had taken to cross the room to where she was, he had been fanatical.
He watched her mouth, now, noting how her lips parted slightly when she was scared or unsure. He watched her touch him--that man she was with--and to say he envied that man didn't do justice to the intensity at which he loathed him for his effortless proximity to her. What he'd give to have that man's arm--the one that she touched so gently and innocently. What he wouldn't give to see her through that man's eyes--ones that looked at her face and saw an equilibrium of passion and lust and love, not fear and disgust.
But now she'd spotted him, and all thoughts of her would be indefinitely suspended.
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"Oh my God..."
"What? What is it?" he asked suddenly, filled with fear and anxiety. He grabbed her hands across the table. Her gaze was locked over his shoulder, obviously fixated on something on the other side of the room. He turned to look where she was looking, but saw nothing he considered to be out of the ordinary.
"Ross..." she whispered, grasping his hands tightly and digging her fingernails into his skin.
"What? What? Rachel, you're scaring me," he warned, the panic setting in and manifesting itself in his voice.
"Jesus, I can't...I don't understand...I can't believe this," she muttered, and it seemed as if she didn't even understand what she was talking about. Her gaze was still intensely fixed on something off in the distance.
"Rachel, what's wrong? Tell me what's wrong? Do you see someone you know?" Know him? KNOW HIM?
"Ross, it's him," she stated simply, finally tearing her eyes away and gazing into Ross'. She swallowed deeply, burning her irises into his and almost daring him to ask her "who". He did not have to.
Ross was up in a flash, standing and poised facing the direction in which Rachel had been looking. One hand was placed on her shoulder, either for her comfort of for his own, he was not sure which. He scanned the crowd with his eyes, not understanding at first why he could not spot the man on his own. He surely wouldn't have to ask Rachel which one he was. Not only could he not do that to her, but surely he could pick out a man so deviously repulsive and distorted from a crowd of regular people. The devil is not a red man with horns and a tail, though.
In a moment, time stood still. The music stopped thumping inside Ross' head. The dozens of people around him faded away into oblivion, ceasing their gyrations and cavalier laughter. The floor fell out from beneath him and the room disintegrated away like burnt ash from coal. There was nothing--no one--but the man in the black shirt who was making a run for it. Their eyes met in that moment, and Ross saw it. He saw it in the way the man moved. He saw it in the dilation of his pupils. He saw everything Rachel had seen that nice--everything she had experience--and he saw it in a hot flash while the rest of the world waited.
Then he was off.
Ross did not feel his feet move from where they were planted on the floor beside Rachel. He did not remember bounding across the dance floor or how he'd come to be pinning this man to the ground, his arm across his throat, strangling the breath from his lungs. He'd blacked out in one moment and come to in the next, but nothing in between mattered, because a life was now in his hands and he just could not find it within himself to show mercy.
"Yo, this mother fucker's INSANE!" yelled a young white man who'd been standing beside the man underneath Ross when he'd attacked him. The crowd parted a bit, sorted murmurings of "give them room" and "watch out" floating around the room. For long, a small circle had been formed around the two men on the floor, everyone in the club having stopped to watch. That's when the world stopped waiting and Ross started remembering.
"I'll KILL YOU!" he yelled, baring down on the man's throat with no intentions of letting up. The man fought for air beneath him, flailing his arms and legs about desperately but making no movement to fight back.
"You're going to kill him!" someone yelled from the back of the crowd. Ross did not care. In fact, he knew this. He had every intention to carry on.
"Say something you fucking sick bastard!" Ross demanded, gritting his teeth and letting spittle fly from his mouth to the man's face as he screamed. He felt his knee pressing into the man's stomach, flattening and piercing his organs. Still he could not stop himself.
So someone did it for him.
Ross felt strong arms lift him by his shoulder to a standing position. He tried to leap forward at the man before he was able to stand back up and possibly get away, but he was being restrained. Chandler.
"What the hell, man!? Let me go!" he demanded, fighting against his friend and struggling vigorously but to no avail. "It's the guy! That's him!"
"I know!" Chandler yelled back, still using all of his strength to contain Ross. "I know, I saw the whole thing! You can't do this here, Ross!"
"Why the Hell not!?" He was still staring at the man, watching him as he steadily and disorientedly got up from the floor and wiped a bit of blood from the corner of his mouth. His eyes had never filled with so much hate. He felt as if bile were welling up there just by looking at the man.
Finally, when Chandler did not answer, he began to understand. Police could get involved. He could spend a night in jail. His parents would find out. Things would get complicated, and for what? This man was not worth the effort it would take to knock him out or kill him, much less the ramifications. Ross stopped his rebelling from Chandler's hold and was soon released. He did not move his eyes from the man, though, and he did take a step towards him, getting directly in his face and pointing a finger between his eyes.
"You listen to me," he began, loathe and disgust pouring from his words. "You're one FUCKED UP son of a bitch, and there's only one thing stopping me from strangling you to death right here and now," he continued, saying his word steadily and slowly so that not just the man could hear him, but everyone else in the club, "and that's that you're not even worth the fucking energy it would take."
While he'd been talking, Ross had subconsciously grabbed the man's shirt collar and was now holding the fabric clenched in his fist. The man remained stoic until Ross finished.
"Fucking energy, eh? Is that what you use on her?" the man asked, grinning smugly at his own pun and deriving his sick pleasure from the hatred he saw building up in Ross' face and the revulsion in his voice.
"You goddamn sick son of a..." Ross spat through a clenched jaw, jerking the man backwards with the one hand on his collar and then winding up, connecting his fist with the underside of the man's chin. The man's head flew backwards, his whole body rocked by the punch and his skin busting open at the point of impact. His blood soaked Ross' fist. Chandler put a hand on Ross' shoulder, letting him know that was enough and signaling that it was now probably time to leave.
Ross made a motion as if he were going to spring at the man again, but stopped himself, shaking his head.
"No, you know what? You're not worth it."
"Oh, come on!" the man provoked. His face was half covered with his own blood and Ross' spit. He'd been backed into a corner, though, and now wanted to make this man suffer. He wanted to make him suffer for taking the thing he wanted the most but would never be able to have. "I fucked your woman! That's not worth another hit?"
Ross' eyes widened. He couldn't even believe what he was hearing. Physical assault was no longer adequate for quenching the contempt he had for this man. In fact, there were no more synonyms to describe the feeling this man aroused within him. It was something so much deeper and hotter and heavier than hate or disgust. There were no word and no actions. He was numb. So he turned to walk away.
"Hey! Ross!" the man shouted. Ross turned around "That's your name, right?" Ross said nothing. "Well, you were right."
"What?" Ross spat.
"You were right. I AM a sick son of a bitch. I'm fucked up," the man admitted, shrugging and even laughing. The entire club was at a stand-still, listening to him talk. "I DID rape her." A collective gasp filled the air. "That's right," he confirmed, nodding his head and looking around at everyone. "I raped her. It doesn't matter, though, Ross, and you know why?" He waited for an answer. Ross didn't give one. "I'm not the one who has to deal with it for the rest of my life. That's right, you heard me. I'm not the one who has to live KNOWING my first time was with a man I didn't know. I'm not the one who has to accept that my girlfriend got screwed by some douche-bag fuck-up while I was nowhere to be found. This isn't my problem, Rossy. This is YOUR problem." To accent the end of his speech, he pointed both his forefingers straight ahead at Ross.
Silence.
What do you say? What was there left to say? Ross had just been humiliated. He had just been told that his life was more or less a shame in front of a room of 70-something strangers. He'd just been given the opportunity to murder a thief and become an instant hero and he'd passed on it. What was the next step?
Not skipping a beat, he took a cloth napkin from the table at his side and tossed it to the man.
"Clean up your face," he whispered, waiting a beat and then turning on his heels. Rachel was waiting at the door. He walked slowly towards her, took her hand and paused to turn to the barkeeper. "Call the police."
And with that, they left.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
The devil is not a red man with horns and a tail, and the hero does not always have to sleigh the dragon.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
End Chapter 20. Continued in Chapter 21.
