Somewhere In Between

by MsMori

Kidnapped and held captive by her brother’s enemy, Emily Quartermaine finds out exactly what it means to be torn between the life you know, the people you love, and the one person you have every reason to hate. NEmLorenzo, Journey, CarSon.

11. What Light through Yonder Window Breaks

(a/n) Hey! Guess what, guys? There is major NEm-ness in this chapter!!! Oh, I had to do it. I just miss my couple SO MUCH. So much, in fact, that I've been going back and reading some old-school transcripts—I'm talking original fab4 here, people. [sighs] It just totally reaffirmed my belief that NEm has to, has to end up together. It's friggin' fated!! Even if I was left slightly reeling by that Luckily kiss. O.o Anyway, this chapter is really, really long. Once its length started to get away from me I intended to break it into 2 pieces, but, well, I got lazy and said screw it, lol. So yeah, the chapter is freaking huge, covers lots and lots of ground and I'm actually pretty happy with it. Shocking, isn't it? lol

Oh, and Nikolas has a flashback in this chapter, but the take-off (after it ends) is kinda funky. See, it's told from Nikolas' perspective, but once it's over I pick up in the present with Lucky, who has been observing his brother during the flashback. Confusing enough for you? I hope not, lol. And if you're wondering why I did it that way--Don't ask me. It just kinda… happened, and, well, I was too lazy to change it, lol. And please excuse the chapter title—it was my attempt—stress on attempt—to be clever. It probably only succeeded in being obscure, lol.

Oh, and slight language warning below for potty-mouthed cops. :o)

So, seeing as though this is another epic installment, I'll let you guys off easy here so you can get to it. Bye! --Loke

To my wonderful reviewers: Bethany Christine, alleycat (Whoohooo! Another 3rd Watcher!! And I yelped in glee when Kim said those two awesome words! Well, I do have one TW fic up but it seems to have died a slow, painful death due to my horrendous lack of motivation, lol. I'll probably try my hand at a new one soon, though.), Tamara, Marian (Don't ever apologize for giving long winded reviews! It's like Christmas or something when I get them, lol.), Teakie, Cindy Ryan, and Ally37—thank you all so, so much for reviewing, and for being so faithful about it! I deeply appreciate the time you all took to let me know how I was doing. As always, you guys rock! :o) Loke hugs

And now, without further ado…

Somewhere In Between

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Chapter Eleven: What Light through Yonder Window Breaks

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Sonny and the usual suspects were all gathered around Sonny's dinning table, joined by more than a few decidedly new faces—new to this, anyhow—engaged in what Sonny could only think was the most bizarre meeting he'd ever taken. His dark, contemplative eyes roved over the cast of characters seated around him, settling lastly on the attentive pair of brooding Cassadine and scruffy-headed Spencer. Truthfully, their presence bothered him. See, by nature Sonny was a private man and this including of Emily's closest friends—kids, by most standards—was just not something he was used to doing, opening up the inner sanctum and all. But Sonny figured that the intrusion—and it was definitely an intrusion—would be well worth it if it got them Emily back, and took some of the weight off Jason. And Sonny wouldn't readily admit it to anyone, but he was truly worried about his friend. Maybe if he got enough people working on this, Jason wouldn't feel so compelled to take off half-cocked.

Sonny smothered a laugh. Yeah, right.

"…As far as I can tell Alcazar left town yesterday afternoon, late." The voice, gruff in nature and bearing a deep Brooklyn accent, belonged to Andrew Venetti; an underboss with the Venetti Syndicate, and one time childhood friend of Sonny's. Their relationship, business wise and personal, had always been more than amicable, and it was because of this that Sonny had no problem trusting the older man, with calling on his offering of 'any time, any place'. Bringing him into the fold had been an anticipatory move on Sonny's part. They needed most—if not all—hands on deck for this one. And Sonny had a feeling—an irksomely certain one—that his search for Emily was going to be a man short. And that was where good old Andy-V came in. He wasn't Jason, nobody was, but he'd do in a pinch.

Leaning forward on the glass, Sonny drew his hands together, fingers pointed in a steeple pressed to his lips. His head was down, but he was definitely listening, every word Andy-V uttered flowing systematically through his mind.

"…Now," the finely-suited man continued, running a calloused hand over his bearded face. "Me and Stan the Man over here been doing some digging, and after busting nearly every head in this town, we finally got somethin'." Andy squinted in Sonny's direction as he tossed a manila folder onto the table. It skidded across the glass and came to smooth stop right under Sonny's nose. "It ain't nuthin' to piss your pants over, but it's a start. A decent one, too."

Sonny eyed the folder questioningly. "What is this?"

"That, my friend, is the result of some very impressive terroristic threatening. Its proof, in black and white, that your guy Morgan's got some serious 'Spidey Sense' type shit running through his veins."

Sonny heaved an irritated sigh. Good as he was, Andy embodied every bad Sopranos stereo type of the Italian-American Mob world out there, and did it proudly. He could get a little swept up in the slick-talking, goomba aspect of things. "English, Andy."

With a good-natured grimace, Andy-V shook his head, looking unmistakably disappointed. "Goddamn, Corinthos, do I stutter? I'm saying what's in that folder pins the tail right on the Jackass—of the Venezuelan variety." Andy urged Sonny on with a nod. "But don't take my word for it, Chief, have a gander."

Sonny flipped open the folder and was instantly assaulted by official looking documents—documents he honestly didn't have the patience to sort through right now. This was why he had people like Andy, Stan, and Myer, so he wouldn't have to 'have a gander'. Sonny closed it and looked pointedly at Andy. "Just sum it up for me, Andy. Short and Sweet. Can we tag Alcazar to this or not?"

"Oh, that's big 10-4, buddy. Alcazar is knee-deep in this thing. I can feel it," Andy said, crossing his massive arms over his eternally puffed-out chest. "Those files you don't want to look through are the only loose end Alcazar couldn't tie up. Flight plans. Two squeaky clean and one conflicting—otherwise known as our pay dirt."

"How can a flight plan be conflicting?"

"When it's bullshit." Andy smiled broadly at Sonny's raised eyebrow. "Yes. As in fake. This Alcazar cat had his crew file a set of plans that had him touching town at Miami International at—oh, I don't know—roughly 4:30pm yesterday, and then rounding back here to PC only three hours later. Now, those sets panned out. But set number three—" Andy leaned forward and took back the manila folder. He opened it and scanned the contents quickly. "—now, that set had Alcazar's same jet that returned from Miami taking off from the Port Charles airport just before 2am, bound yet again for Miami."

Sonny narrowed his eyes in thought. "Emily was scooped just after 1am. That would fit the timeline."

"Like a glove, brother—according to the info you gave me, anyway." The burly Brooklynite let loose a weary sigh and drew out a chair for himself, addressing each rapt tablemate with a grave look. "But here's where things get mucky, boys. The plane definitely took off, but it never showed up in Miami, and we don't have a clue where it went to—as yet."

"Wait—" It was the concerned and somewhat incredulous voice of Lucky Spencer that broke into the conversation. He was looking directly at the intimidating, older Venetti unflinchingly. "Are you telling me that in this day and age—with all the new security measures this country's swimming in post 9-11—that someone could file a phony flight plan for a Lear, and then just… disappear? What happened to all that high-tech radar and sophisticated tracking tools we're always hearing about? You're not supposed to be able to get away with that kind of stuff anymore."

Andy-V regarded the young Spencer carefully. "You're Luke's kid, aren't you?"

Lucky blinked and then nodded. "Yeah," he confirmed, reaching his hand across the table and allowing it to be engulfed by Venetti's bear-like one. "Name's Lucky." He jerked his head in Nikolas' direction. "This is my brother. Nikolas."

Andy's face gained a suspicious tilt as he anchored his gaze on Nikolas. "I didn't know Luke had two boys."

"He doesn't," Lucky and Nikolas said together, their demeanors as no-nonsense as it could get. As far as the brothers were concerned, they weren't here to dish about their family's torrid past. They were her to find Emily. Case closed.

But, as was to be expected, the brothers' denial only fanned the flames. "You're not a Spencer?" he asked Nikolas.

Sonny could plainly see the irritation bubbling in Nikolas and Lucky's eyes, and he had to admit—he was right there with them. Andy, for as efficient as he was, had a way of getting easily distracted when it came to certain things. Like being nosy. "He's Laura's boy, Andy," Sonny said, waving a hand as if to dismiss the matter completely. "Forget about the Spencer family history lesson and answer Lucky's question. How the hell can a jet just vanish nowadays?"

Successfully pulled back to the nuts and bolts of things, Andy leaned back in his chair. "How do you get anything done that you're not supposed to be able to? Money. Filing bogus plans is a tad trickier than it used to be a few years ago. Ever since 9-11 those air traffic controllers watch for major deviations in plans like their lives depend on it. But, just like anything else, if you grease the right guy's wheels anything's possible, I guess, even getting it so a tweaked out Lear jet can completely miss it's destination. Plus its Port Charles to Miami at two o'clock in the morning, Sonny, it ain't exactly like watching airspace over the capital. Stuff's a little easier to let slide, ya know?"

"Okay," Nikolas started, looking between Venetti and Sonny. "So, I get how it could happen, but how does that help us? What you're basically saying is that he could have Emily anywhere on the planet. I don't know about everyone else, but I don't find that to be particularly comforting information."

Andy shot Nikolas a hard look. "Hey, Not-a-Spencer, didn't you just hear me say things were mucky? You're girlfriend was kidnapped by a drug lord who's paper trail's just turned to dust. Of course it's not comforting, but it doesn't make it any less true."

Nikolas glared back at him. "First of all, my name is Nikolas, and secondly…" He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, earning a raised brow from Venetti. "She's not my girlfriend."

"Could've fooled me," Andy mumbled under his breath.

"What was that?"

Andy smothered a smile. "Nothing, kid." But Nikolas didn't seem pacified, and Sonny registered a small jolt of surprise when he saw Andy's face soften perceptibly as he continued to hold Nikolas' gaze. "Look, alls I'm saying is that at least we know whose backyard to go diggin' in now. That you can take comfort in." Andy looked at Sonny. "And I really got a feeling about this, man; Alcazar is it all the way. With all that activity around the time of the girl's abduction, the phony flight plans, and his past history with you, I'm thinking this is a lock, Sonny. Now all we have to do is figure out where in the hell that plane ended up. We find that—we find the girl."

"Is that even something we can do?" Sonny asked, suddenly skeptical. "This isn't like shaking down some lowlife on the docks for information, Andy; this bleeds over into the federal domain here, official type shit. We may need to be realistic about our limitations."

Venetti righted his posture again, back stick-straight and an aura of pure seriousness temporarily staving off his Mafia mystique. "Between your men and my crew, we ain't got many. Limitations, that is. Trust me, Sonny, it may take a little while—a few days even—but we'll find where Alcazar's jet touched down. Somewhere there are radar records of his flight—there has to be—and we're gonna find them. I'm not gonna let you, Morgan, and that girl just wait for the axe to fall. Not while it's within my power to stop this mess before Alcazar gets demand happy." Andy shifted his gaze, trapping both Lucky and Nikolas within the intense stare. "This will happen, guys. She will come home. On the Venetti family name, that is my promise to you."

Just then the door to the penthouse creaked open and Sonny saw his sister emerge sullenly from the hall. He stood and met her halfway.

"Hey." Sonny greeted Courtney with a pulled together brow. "What's wrong?" He glanced behind her. "Where's Jason?"

She lifted her head, but there was an odd timidity to it. "He's gone."

"Gone?" Sonny narrowed his eyes on her; Courtney shifted under her brother's intense stare. "Courtney, I told you to bring him here. How could you let him just take off?"

"What was I supposed to do, Sonny? Hit him over the head? Huh? Tie him to a chair maybe?" He could see an angry blush crawling to her cheeks and Sonny felt a pang of guilt rush through him. This wasn't her fault. He had to stop lashing out at her.

Softening, he stepped closer, settling a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Hey, look, I know. If Jason was going, he was going. There was nothing you could have done."

Closing her eyes, Courtney sighed heavily, her brother's sudden gentleness clearly easing her, at least somewhat. "There's something else," she said wearily, meeting his eyes once more. "He took his spare gun with him."

Sonny's hand dropped abruptly from her shoulder and his head went next. "Son of a bitch." But the angry whisper didn't do Sonny's true feelings much justice at all. Jason, an injured and freshly operated on Jason, taking off after his snatched sister all by himself was about the worst thing that could have happened right then. There was no telling what damage he could do, and that didn't even include to himself.

"Where was he going?" he asked his sister.

Courtney shrugged. "He didn't say exactly, but he did mention Johnny just before he left, so he could be on his way to the hospital." The worried blonde shook her head. "But, Sonny, after that—"

"After that it won't matter," Sonny finished for. He turned sharply to the table of men. "Meeting's over for now. We'll reconvene later." He nodded his thanks to Andy. He wasn't entirely sure what he'd ever done to deserve such loyalty, but what Sonny did know was that he would be eternally grateful for both it and Andy. "I really appreciate everything you're doing here, Andy. I won't forget it." The older man inclined his head solemnly and Sonny made for the door. He had his hand on the knob when—

"Wait," Nikolas and Lucky protested together, coming out of their seats; Sonny rounded on the objection. "We can't just leave things like this," Nikolas went on, grave faced. "There are still things that need to be looked over. I'm sure Jason can manage—"

Sonny cut Nikolas off with a glare. "You don't get to make that call, I do. And right now I say that this meeting is done until I call you all back. Besides, Andy and Stan have hit a wall anyway. This will give them some time to find more out."

"And what about us? What do we do while the rest of you are out being useful, huh?" Lucky's face was set and determined and Sonny couldn't help but be a little, well, moved by the deep-reaching concern both young men felt towards Jason's sister. It was a sweet thing, really.

Relenting for what seemed like the millionth time that day, Sonny ran a hand over his face. "Fine. Okay. Why don't you two, ah… pay the PCPD a visit—see if their crack detectives managed to pull anything together yet. Pump 'em for as much info as you can. Who knows, maybe they'll be something we can use."

The pair seemed to be aware that their 'jobs' had been a placating effort on Sonny's part, but they nodded obediently anyway. To Sonny their easy acceptance of it proved just how badly they wanted her back; they'd do anything—even braving the Port Charles Idiot Patrol—as long as it didn't involve sitting around and twiddling their thumbs. Doing nothing at a time like this seemed an unforgivable sin.

"And take a guard with you. Just to be safe," he told the brothers as he once again made for the door. "I don't need anybody else winding up in the ICU today." He swung open the penthouse door, Francis waiting at the ready in the hall, but turned a pair of softened dark eyes on his little sister before disappearing. "I don't know if he'll listen to me, Courtney," He said softly. "But I'll try."

A beat later, the heavy wooden door swung shut behind him.

-----

"So, is this how it's gonna to go?" She asked him with her usual impudence, her back to him, her eyes fixed on the swaying trees that dotted the lawn. "We stand around in silence, you staring a hole through my back?"

Just as before, he was left with nothing to do but glower at the back of her head, feeling the altogether unfamiliar pinpricks of immaturity force a snipe of protest. "I wasn't staring."

And then she snorted. Again.

"Do you have to do that?" he snapped, unable to beat down the childish reaction.

Emily's jaw clenched; he could plainly see the muscle tense there and viciously so. She wheeled around to face him, her arms set defiantly across her chest. "Do what?" She practically hissed it at him.

With significant effort, Lorenzo managed to quell his urge to match her spiteful glare. "Snort," he said easily, tone not betraying his mounting frustrations with her—but only barely. Yes, he was a man versed in keeping his temper under wraps in situations of this kind, but this young woman was proving to be unlike anyone he'd ever dealt with previously. She seemed to possess the inexplicable ability to pull genuine emotions from him. Both of extreme incense and… sympathy even, when one counted his reaction to her display earlier. And, frankly, he was becoming disgusted with himself. These responses to her were highly irregular. "It's very unbecoming."

Barely suppressing a laugh, Emily pressed a thin hand to her chest and batted her eyes mockingly. "Oh, I'm sorry… am I not behaving to your liking, Mr. Kidnapper Sir?"

A sugary sweet verbal slap in the face. How Lovely. "You're an exceptionally cynical woman, Ms. Quatermaine."

"Cynical?" Emily snapped, gazing at him in disbelief. "You think I'm cynical? Oh, that's right," she said, shaking her head disgustedly. "I'm not cowering in some corner scared of my own shadow, trembling in fear every time you come near me, so I must be a contemptuous Ivy League bitch, right? Never mind the fact that I'm being held against my will in some sick game your playing with Sonny and my brother, and that maybe—just maybe—I might be a little pissed off about that fact. Pissed off enough to share with you my displeasure with just how rank this all is. But, of course, I wouldn't expect you to understand any of that, seeing as though you'd probably like nothing more than to have me weak-kneed and flinching in terror at you very prese—"

"First of all," Lorenzo interrupted sharply, his hands safely balled into white-knuckled fists within his pockets, away from her scrutinizing gaze. "I made no such implications about you being an… 'Ivy League bitch', was it?" He took particular pleasure in the repeated clench of her jaw. "I merely made what was, in my opinion, a fairly accurate assessment of your attitude—which, by the way, leaves much to be desired. And secondly," a calming breath invaded his lungs and Lorenzo forced his voice to ditch its steely tilt—it was no easy feat. "Believe it or not, Ms. Quatermaine, the absolute last thing I want is for you to be terrified of me."

His admission hung in the air starkly, it becoming painfully clear that another one of those awkward moments had found them. Once again, Emily simply stared at him, much as she had only minutes earlier, that same flickering of emotion—negative or positive, he had no right idea—riveting him foolishly to the spot. Somewhere, buried in the back of his mind, a tiny voice chanted that this was when his exit should be made. It had been the perfect closing statement. Yet still, there he was, standing there, a mere two feet from her, his feet unwilling to move and his eyes unwilling to shift from hers.

And what incredible eyes they were.

The soft brown orbs, he could tell, belonged to a woman who was so much more than what she outwardly appeared. And it amazed him how very much they spoke about her. Courage, fire, honesty, love, devotion—they were all there, weaved delicately between flakes of gold and green that nothing short of glittered as they stared back at him, unflinchingly, challengingly. And, at that moment, as the heavy and binding silence hung so darkly about them, Lorenzo was struck by an utterly absurd desire. To see those very eyes alight and happy instead of hard with scorn, smiling in unsurpassed joy. At him. For him.

And just as quickly as the musing had found him, Lorenzo stamped out the silly notion, grinding it to dust and banishing it from his mind. His back straightened resolutely, Lorenzo backed away from her and broke the spell yet again. It was nothing, he told himself, just a lingering of things that were better off forgotten. It wasn't her. It was a shadow of a memory, it wasn't real. That was it. Case closed. No further examination necessary.

On with the show.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, he offered the still strangely silent girl only his profile. "I had my men purchase some things for you," he said. "Clothes and such. I'll have them brought up here when they arrive."

And with one final moment of hesitation, he left, the heavy chamber doors closing quietly in his wake.

-----

Port Charles, April 2003

They hadn't said one word to each other in almost an hour, and Nikolas didn't think he'd felt this content in a very long time. Two years to be exact. Emily, her hair pulled up in a makeshift ponytail, lay across the foot of her bed, flat on her stomach, her ankles hooked together, completely immersed in a book, and thoroughly oblivious to the fact that he'd been staring at her for the past ten minutes. He had his back propped up against her headboard, and was, at the moment, trying very hard to memorize the picture she made—because it was perfect. Wisps of her dark hair drifted into her eyes, giving need for her to push it back behind her ear every once and a while. Her eyes--delicate, deep, enchanting mocha--were narrowed on the aged pages, and her tank-top clad back rose and fell in a precious rhythm that, right now, seemed to possess hypnotic powers. Because even though he knew he should stop, and pay the ancient leather bound book in his lap decent mind, he just… couldn't. It'd been too long since he'd been able to do this. To just look at her. To just be near her again. It felt right. Peaceful, almost.

And while he took full advantage of this long missed ability—stretching on for several minutes—Nikolas became keenly aware that he was being ridiculous. He'd talked with her every week—sometimes twice—during the whole time she was away, and here he was, sitting in her room, completely incapable of doing something as simple as reading. And all because he couldn't stop watching her, and couldn't get over how incredible it felt to be able to do just that. In short, he felt like an idiot, like a…what did Lucky call it…? A dumbass? Nikolas chuckled lightly at his brother's crassness. Yeah, that was it. A dumbass. A big one.

"What's so funny?"

Her voice, interested yet somehow detached, startled him a bit; causing the book perched in his lap to clap shut abruptly. He winced at the sound. Oh, yeah. Definitely a dumbass. "Nothing," he said, his voice sounding more controlled than he was feeling, because, well, he wasn't feeling very controlled at all. He actually had no clue what he was feeling, which, in and of itself, was fairly disturbing. This was Emily for God's sake, the same Emily he'd know for practically half his life. The Emily who had been his first real friend in PC, who'd attempted to teach him how to dance Hip Hop, who'd he'd--with the same degree of success-- had tried to teach fencing to. The same Emily who'd had an enormous crush on him, who'd kissed him in the middle of a moonlit park…

Completely unbidden, a silly—yes, silly—smile of remembrance attached itself to the prince's lips. Heh. That was a good memory. But not for the reason's one might think. It hadn't been the spontaneous realization of a long fantasized moment (not by a long-shot) nor had the kiss caused him to suddenly fall head- over-heels for the then thirteen year old. No, Nikolas held the memory dear for another reason altogether. See, that was the night he realized exactly how much mettle God could cram into one tiny, little body. Because that had been the bravest, most daring thing he'd ever witnessed. Just putting her feelings out there like she did, completely out, with nothing but a vein of hope and an "oh, screw it" attitude to spur her on. She'd become his hero that night, and hadn't quit being it since.

"Okay, that's it," she said, pushing herself up on an elbow to peer at him, her voice not sounding so uninterested anymore. "I demand to know what the grinning is all about, Nikolas."

Yes, she was a back and that was amazingly wonderful, but, as Lucky would so astutely put it, he needed to get a grip. Bad. So, mentally shaking himself, Nikolas straightened and forced a more neutral expression. "I wasn't grinning," he denied composedly.

Her eyebrow did a slow rise and she shifted in place, pivoting to face him fully. She considered him carefully for a moment, and Nikolas briefly remembered a time when this sort of prolonged eye-contact would have resulted in her blushing furiously and busying herself with picking at the hem of her skirt or a button on her blouse. God, things had changed. They really weren't kids anymore. She wasn't a kid anymore… Cautious eyes that sought evidence of his musing roamed reverently across the smooth, ivory curves of her face, the graceful tint of her cheeks, the soft, pink bow of her mouth, the pale column of her throat that met bare shoulders in a graceful dip… the expanse of freckle-dusted skin that disappeared beneath clingy white cotton…

It wasn't until she shifted uncomfortably under the trail of his gaze that Nikolas realized he had succumbed to staring again, and blatant staring at that. With an admonishing sigh he averted his eyes to his book, hoping that she would allow his uncharacteristic breach to go unmentioned, that she would go back to reading her dusty, old book of poetry, and that they could regain the companionable silence of the past hour. He wasn't surprise in any measure when her gentle but bemused voice dashed his feeble hopes.

"What is wrong with you, Nikolas?"

The question was posed with a shake of her head that, by someone unfamiliar with Emily and her ways, could easily have been construed as accusatory, cold even. But, in her eyes, there was a genuine and open interest, a worry that vehemently denied the contrary. In other words, she was only half joking, and he knew it. That was the only reason why he didn't just simply laugh and continue his charade of reading. "Nothing," he answered her, voice still as acutely controlled as ever. "Everything is—"

"Oh, my God, if you say 'fine' I'm going to smack you," she huffed, managing to looking utterly adorable in a completely baffling way. She'd been doing that a lot lately. "You and Lucky are like two parrots with all this 'I'm fine' stuff."

"Could that because we are—" She glared at him, prompting a mid-sentence switch of gears. "—doing okay," he substituted with emphasis. "Did you ever think of that, Emily?"

"Yeah… for, like, a minute," she countered.

His eyes narrowed playfully. "Well, try making it stretch a little longer, then, because I assure you: I. Am. Fine." He smiled openly at the eye roll she gave. He really didn't know anyone else like her, doubted he ever would.

"Okay, okay," she relented while still eyeing him suspiciously. "But I'd still like to know what all this smiling is about. You're a Cassadine, Nikolas; the grin is kinda freakin' me out. Where'd Mr. Broody go to, huh?"

He lowered his eyes once more to his book, perturbed at himself for being so transparent. He hadn't even realized he was smiling so much. His face just sort of… got that way whenever she was around. Wasn't much he could do to stop it, and, to be honest, he didn't really want to try. It felt good. She made him feel good. "I can't help it okay," he admitted, an inattentive mind condemning him to rereading the same sentence over and over again. "I'm just happy you're back."

And, in response, Emily let out a tiny, high-pitched "aww." In a flash she was perched on her knees and directly in front of him, commanding his complete attention with her fathomless brown eyes and wide, open smile. "You missed me?" she squeaked, clearly delighted, a delicate hand pressed to her chest.

His head tipped gently to the side as he considered her, unsure of his response, unsure of the response she'd be ready for. Because he had a feeling, a rather certain one, that there was indeed a vast difference between what he wanted to say at this moment, and what Emily would be okay with hearing. He opted instead for a middle ground—a place he knew well when it came to her.

"I always miss you when you're not with me."

-----

Streams of brilliant midday sun made the water's surface glimmer as it churned, and, to Lucky's left, Nikolas stood at the docks' edge, eyes cast out in a thousand yard stare. Sighing, Lucky squinted at the view, trying to pluck out what had his brother so enraptured, and knowing full well he wouldn't find it out there. Because, chances were, Nikolas wasn't even seeing the water, or the sun, or anything at all. He was seeing her. He was seeing Emily. And it made Lucky's heart sink.

This is so unfair, he thought angrily. Nikolas and Emily had been so close. With the talked he'd had with Nikolas in the Jag, and after the little kiss on the cheek he'd given Emily last night, Lucky was convinced it would only be a matter of time. They would finally stop playing games, stop running, and just admit it already. Just let themselves feel what damn near everyone could see was there.

But then it all fell apart, and Lucky wasn't sure whether he should be more worried, angry, sad, or an unhinged mixture of the three. And the last option seemed to make the most sense because he was all three. He was terrified for Emily, worried sick about her, entertaining murderous thoughts toward Alcazar, and, lastly, sad. For Emily's family, for Elizabeth, for himself, but more for his brother. Nikolas would never admit it, but he was hurting inside right now. Lucky could see it in his eyes. For the first time in Nikolas's life, he was feeling helpless, like it was all out of his hands, that there wasn't anything he could do—and precisely at a time when action was the most crucial. And Lucky knew that had to be killing his brother, because it sure as hell was killing him. Sure, he'd left Liz and tracked Nikolas to Sonny's; he'd even managed to talk himself into the search, too. But it still felt like they weren't really doing anything. Emily was with God only knows what kind of scum, probably royally freaked out and there they were, on their way to see what kind of info the PCPD had to give them. God, could it get any more ridiculous than that?

Sighing again, Lucky cut his eyes to the side. Nikolas was still unmoved. After five whole minutes he hadn't so much as swayed. It was actually a little freaky. "Hey, Nik?" Silence. And, turning fully toward him, Lucky tired again a little louder. "Nikolas…"

Like a switch had been flipped, Nikolas sprung to life. He tore his eyes off the water and looked at Lucky. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Where'd you go just now?" Lucky asked, glancing out at the water and then back at his brother. "You seemed like you were light years away."

Nikolas shook his head, peering down at the dock boards like they were the most interesting sight in the world. "Not that far," he whispered sadly, giving Lucky the distinct impression that those words had a meaning he wasn't getting. But the odd moment was broken when his brother took a deep, sudden breath, as if righting his thoughts, and flashed a placating smile. "Did you—did you have something you wanted to ask me…?"

"Yeah. I, uh…I guess I just wanted to know if you were sure about this," Lucky said, hands burrowing into the pockets of his jeans. "Are you sure you don't want to come with me to get Liz. I know she's worried about you, man. It might help her to see you right now." Yeah, it was a cheap shot, playing the Liz card, but, hey, you use what you got, right?

"Lucky, I have no interest in going to Lansing's house, I can't stand the guy. I told you; you take the Jag to get Liz, and I'll meet you two at the PCPD later."

"Well, as enticing as that offer is, you letting me get behind the wheel of your baby and all, I still think you should come with me. She really needs to see you."

"She doesn't need to see me, she needs to see Emily," Nikolas snapped, a flare of anger rearing its head completely out of the blue. "Seeing me isn't going to fix anything. It isn't going to bring Emily home, or make Elizabeth any less afraid, make her stop wondering where Emily is, if she's okay, or if she's scared or hurt or… or…." Lucky watched his brother close his eyes and bite down on the sudden welling emotion, forcing it back and away.

"Whoa, calm down," Lucky said, hands up, palms out, not understanding what had set his brother off. He'd just been doing an impression of an inanimate object a minute ago. What the hell? "Emily is okay, Nikolas. She isn't—"

"You don't know that!" Nikolas roared. "No one knows a damn thing and I just… I just have no idea what to do. She's gone. Like, gone, without any real trace. It hasn't even been twenty-four hours and I feel like I'm dying here, Lucky. I really don't know how much more of this I can take." The admission was raw and shaky and Lucky was more than positive that it hadn't been planned on. And there was a glint to his eyes that in one instant confirmed something Lucky had suspected but had no way of being sure of until now: His brother was slowly coming unglued here. Seriously unglued. "I just want to see her, Lucky. That's all I want. Just to see her. To have her back."

Tentatively, Lucky drifted forward a half step. He wasn't exactly an expert at this sort of thing, but he had to try. "I know," he said quietly, still nearing his brother like he was a wild animal and any sudden movement might send him fleeing from sight. "I want that, too, man. Believe me, I do. I want Emily back, too."

"But how are we going to accomplish it, Lucky?" Nikolas asked him, frustration temporarily staving off his brother's desperation. "How the hell are we going to do it?"

Lucky sighed and hung his head. He was wondering the same thing himself. It was easy to say that she'd be back, but it would be something else completely to actually succeed in bringing her home, especially considering just how little they knew. "That I don't know," he admitted, a bit deflated as he stared at the tops of his boots.

The water caught Nikolas' attention again as the dark haired prince turned to the rolling currents. "It's just a waiting game, isn't it?" he asked, more to himself than to him, Lucky gathered. "There really isn't a damn thing we can do but sit and wait for that bastard to make his more, is there? We're powerless. Completely and totally powerless."

These words brought Lucky's head up. He couldn't even imagine how difficult saying that had to have been. Cassadines weren't keen on admitting weakness, and, though he was not your typical Cassadine, Nikolas was no exception to this fact. "We won't be for long." He wasn't sure why he said that, exactly, only that it was the only thing his mind could process. Lucky just couldn't wrap his mind around any other possibility. Stan and Andy would find something. They would track the Lear's true route and, in doing so, get a lead on Emily's location. It would happen. It had to.

"Look," Lucky went on when it appeared Nikolas didn't have a retort for him. "You have to keep your head busy; dwelling isn't gonna do anything but make it worse. So, just, I don't know… just come with me to get Liz, if for no other reason than to just be there. We need to be together right now."

The statue shifted, an alarming laugh flittering through the air. "We?" he said, incredulous. "And do you plan on inducting a new member into the group? Because something tells me Lansing won't be too thrilled with us spending time alone with Elizabeth. He's barely let her see the light of day since the miscarriage, and every time I have seen her he's been right there, glaring a hole through my head."

Mentally, Lucky flicked back to earlier in the day, when he'd gone to see Elizabeth. Ric hadn't stopped staring at them the whole time. It was down right creepy and just another reason why he did not enjoy Ric Lansing. The man was just off, and, in his and his brother's opinion, not at all right for Elizabeth. Straightening, Lucky refocused on Nikolas' profile. "Screw Lansing," he said. "She was ours first, right?" Nikolas snorted a laugh and Lucky smiled, inspired by the reaction. "I mean, hey, we're the Four Musketeers, aren't we?"

Nikolas smiled, his eyes still on the water. "The girls love it when we call ourselves that."

"And they should, because that's exactly who we are, Nikolas. The Four Musketeers. All for one…"

"…And one for all," he finished. Slowly, Nikolas turned to face his brother. And Lucky could see it. Sure, the whole 'all for one and one for all' quote was cheesy as all hell, but he knew it would work. The four of them meant more to each other than anyone—anyone—could ever even begin to realize. They'd been through hell and back together, starting with Elizabeth's rape and Emily's first blackmail, catching that bastard Tom who was behind them both, the brainwashing, The whole Dead Ted fiasco, and so, so many other things. And now tragedy had struck again and Lucky knew that, if they wanted to make it through the other side of this thing, they'd have to stick together. The three of them. Until it could be the four of them. And if Lansing didn't like, the creep could just go jump off a pier for all Lucky cared.

"So you coming of your own free will or do I have to drag your ass back to the Jag? 'Cause either way, your coming with me, man."

Nikolas laughed. Thank God Almighty, he laughed. "Okay, okay, I'm coming."

"Oh, good," Lucky breathed, giving his head a shake and letting his shoulders slump as he led the way back to the car. "Because Elizabeth would have kicked my ass if I showed up without you."

-----

Sonny found him just where Courtney had suggested: the hospital. Eyes shut, Jason was leaning against Johnny's closed door, his head bowed. With a sigh and a rough sweep over his stubble-peppered chin, Sonny approached his friend slowly.

"Jason." It wasn't very clever, but it worked, and Jason blinked open his eyes. He didn't seem at all surprised. Or happy.

Jason surveyed the empty spaces behind and to the right and left of Sonny—the spaces that weren't supposed to be empty. "Where are the guards?"

Sonny sighed again. Would Jason ever stop putting others before himself? The man wasn't even twenty-four-hours out of surgery for God's sake, and his concern for Sonny's wellbeing still overrode the sparse (and that was probably being generous) concern he harbored for himself. If they weren't the complete antithesis of Godly men, Sonny would have nominated Jason for sainthood long ago. "They stayed downstairs—" Jason's shoulders gave a nearly imperceptible twitch of annoyance "—what?" Sonny bit out, trying not to become incensed quite so early in their exchange. "Did you want Francis and Max hanging on every word of this?"

Jason drew back on himself at Sonny words; eyes cast downward, jaw set. He knew what was coming, knew why Sonny ordered the guards—even ones as in the loop as Francis and Max—to stay away. They were going to have it out, and though Sonny couldn't think of anything he'd like to do less at that very moment, he grudgingly accepted the task's necessity. Jason had gotten into his head that he could get Emily back completely on his own. And there was no way Sonny could let him do that. No way.

With another massive sigh, Sonny took a familiar stance of woeful contemplation: one hand set at his hip, the other cupped against the side of his face, while his eyes focused dolefully on the top of Jason's head. "You know—you know that I can't let you do this, right? That I can't let you take off."

"I'm not gonna take off." Softly spoken, a calm and measured retort. Sonny almost believed it. Almost.

"Don't lie to me, Jason."

"I don't lie to you, Sonny. Remember?"

The answer was delivered with such bite, Sonny actually flinched. Not something easily accomplished. Letting out a long, measured breath, Sonny once again reined in his temper. There was a better way to do this. There had to be. So, after a nanosecond of weighing his approaches, Sonny went on with the option that had the best chance of breaking through: talking specs, not talking down. "I put a team together," he ventured with a heavy voice.

At this, Sonny saw the tiniest trace of relent in his friend's profile and with it a spark of triumph. Maybe if he just kept pushing, kept hammering his point across… "I got Stan and even Myer working triple manned on this, Jase. I, uh… I even reached out."

Jason looked up then, brows furrowed, cool blue eyes squinted in disbelief. "Not the families…? Sonny, please tell me you didn't bring that son of a bitch into the--"

"No, no, not Tagliatti," Sonny assured Jason, who visibly deflated. "I would never involve him on this. I sent out a call to Andy-V." Sonny dipped his voice to a whisper as he moved a step closer to Jason. One could never be too careful. "And, man, he's already got us in this. You remember what you said about Alcazar? Yeah, well, Andy says you were right on the mark—he think this was him all the way. He got hold of some conflicting flight plans and some--"

"Wait. He's sure? He's positive that Alcazar was behind it?"

Sonny nodded. "Like I said, all the way."

For one moment, perhaps two, Jason stood stock still as he stared at Sonny. But then, in his eyes, Sonny saw something snap, and like a shot, before Sonny could even react properly, Jason was halfway down the corridor, trudging toward the elevators like a man possessed.

Clicking back into the present, Sonny took off after him, ignoring for a moment the fact that he, composed, Mob Boss Sonny Corinthos was running down a hospital corridor. "Whoa—Jason, wait!"

"Not now, Sonny," Jason all but growled over his shoulder.

Reaching down, Sonny put on an extra burst of speed and lunged forward just before Jason stepped onto the conveniently open elevator. He clapped a hand over Jason's good shoulder and yanked him backward. Jason stumbled and spun around to face his boss and friend, the contorting pull of anger visible in every line and furrow of his face. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Me?" Sonny righted his jacket and gazed coldly at Jason. "What am I dong? What are you doing? Jason, I tell you that I'm pretty sure this is Alcazar's game—the same Alcazar who's an international operator—and you take off out of here like your ass is on fire? Alone? I don't even know what to say to that."

"Then don't say anything," Jason spat, smoothing down his own mussed clothes. "Just let me go save my sister."

The urge to shatter something was so strong Sonny actually slipped his eyes closed for a moment in effort to quell his frustration. Opening them again, Sonny said: "You'll have to find her first."

"Fine. Then I'll find her."

"And how do you plan on doing that?"

"I'll figure it out."

"Okay, and what about back-up? You plan on taking Alcazar and his legions on all by yourself."

"If I have to."

Sonny let out a howl—an actual howl—of frustration. "Are you even listening to yourself, man? How in the hell can you believe that you're capable of doing this alone, without getting you and Emily killed?!"

"I don't know!" It wasn't just an admission—it was a roar. Jason's chest heaved and his eyes blazed, but it was a different kind of blaze. It was the blaze of fear, true and gripping. Jason was a man who thrived on being needed, who lived to repair the damage, to fix the problem, and to right the wrong… only, this time, when it really meant something—everything—to him, there wasn't anything Jason could do. Sonny could practically see the helplessness eating away at his friend, devouring him from the inside out. And, at the risk of sounding mushy, it broke his heart. "I just… I don't know how, Sonny, but I have to try. I have to—"

"You have to think is what you have to do. You have to take one damn minute and use your head, Jase—I know that you get this. Running off half-cocked… it ain't gonna do Emily any good, and all it's gonna get you is dead. So you need to take a breath here and decided what you want." Sonny cast a glance at Johnny's room and then back at Jason, eyes solemn. And in that instant, the Mobster's decision was made. If Jason wouldn't listen to reason, Sonny would be forced to show it to him. Sonny let out a determined huff of air and seized Jason by the arm. He pulled his friend—who seemed more stunned than angry, really—behind him until they were directly in front of the window to Johnny's room. He released Jason and thrust a finger at the security glass, to the hospital bed beyond it. He looked at Jason with eyes that flashed darkly between anger and legitimate worry.

"Do you want to end up back in here hooked up to a bunch of machines, so drugged out that you can't even say Emily's name, let alone save her? Huh? Is that what you really want?"

Sonny registered a ripple of victory at the way Jason--the notorious brick wall with a pulse--winced at his words, and the way he averted his eyes from the heartbreaking scene that stood framed before them. But Sonny didn't lower his eyes. No, he forced himself to look; to let his tired gaze anchor on the image of an exhausted fourteen-year-old asleep at her injured brother's bedside, her fingers intertwined with his. Sometimes, just when he'd almost—almost—let himself forget a little of the pain, an ounce of the guilt, something traumatic would always happen to slap Sonny right back into reality. Dismal reality. And, as it almost always went, he was never fast enough, or fortunate enough, to be the one who bore the brunt of that trauma. No, others… innocent others seemed destined to do that job for him. There wasn't anything he could do to save Johnny now or ease Gina's heartache; the worst had already happened. But there was still Emily to think about… Sonny's eyes sought out his best friend again. And Jason. He could still keep Jason from barging headlong into disaster…

"Because that's exactly what you're gonna get," Sonny continued to an unmoving Jason, gesturing again to their battered employee. "Go. Run out of here without any sort of plan, zero Intel, and a bum shoulder and I promise you that this is exactly where you will end up. Only, I don't think you'll be so lucky as to have your sister sitting vigil at your bedside. So, I ask you again, Jason, is this how you want to do things? Or do you want to take a step back from your anger long enough to just sit down with me and with Stan and Andy and come up with a real plan that will have your sister back home again safe, with you, where she belongs?"

Frozen, looking every bit the part of stone statue, Jason stared at Sonny. And Sonny all but lost it. "You know what?" the older man roared. "Fine. You wanna go and dig your own gave by charging outta here—be my fucking guest! But if you think for one second that I'm gonna let you put Emily at risk because you can't calm the hell down—you got another coming. Newsflash, Jason: I care about her, too." The statement was low and gravely and the God's honest truth. "I've known that girl since she was twelve years old. She is decent, caring, fair, generous, and more forgiving than I could ever hope to be, and I'm not going to let anyone—not even you—mess up my chances of getting her out of this alive and untouched! So, if you're not going stand down on your own, then I'm going to be forced to make you! It's entirely your decision. But hear what I have to say: I don't want to take this there, Jason. But I will. I swear to God, I will."

With one final glare, Sonny turned on his heel and started off down the hall, his promise hanging ominously in the air. And, yes, surprising at it may have seemed, it was a promise. Sonny hated the idea of pulling rank at a time like this, but if Jason thought he could not only blatantly disregard orders but pleas as well, then Sonny didn't know what other choice he was left with. Allowing Jason to make such an emotionally fueled and drastic move could've ended up jeopardizing everything, and not just Emily. It would show their hand, let Alcazar know just how desperately they wanted Emily back—which was exactly like giving the bastard a free pass to do whatever the hell he wanted to both Emily and the city…a thought that moved the mobster's stomach in a queasy swirl. He couldn't—under any circumstances—allow that to happen. He just hoped Jason would come to his senses and concede before things got too out of cont—

"I'll come with you…"

The slowly and softly spoken words nearly gave Sonny a heart attack; he'd been so engrossed in his own thoughts that he hadn't even heard Jason following him down the hall. Sonny turned to face his enforcer, his friend, and offered him a small, relieved smile. Well, that had turned out way better than he thought.

"…But we have to make a stop first."

And just like that Sonny's smile was gone, fleeing from him in a blink of Jason's rigid gaze. Sonny sighed and raked a heavy hand over his face.

Why, oh, why, did he have the feeling that he really wasn't going to like this?

-----

A bird landed on the veranda. A tiny, white bird—she had no idea what kind—fluttered to a graceful stop on her veranda railing. And chirped at her.

Emily stuck her tongue out at it.

Stupid bird, she huffed, flaunting its freedom all willy-nilly.

If only she had a rock… or a cat.

Emily's eyes popped at the disturbing notion. Okay, that was it. She needed to get a grip. She was actually entertaining thoughts of murdering some poor, defenseless bird who had done nothing but perfectly normal birdie-type things. She had no idea what going stir crazy—or any kind of crazy at all, really—felt like, but this had to be at least in the general vicinity of some kind of mental break, here. It had to be. How could wishing cute little white birdies dead not be? Pushing roughly off the bed, Emily began to pace the polished wooden floor, arms crossed and mouth drawn into a frown. She couldn't take this. The disturbingly heated and intense face-offs with Alcazar which, in her opinion, involved way too much eye-contact (she absolutely refused to analyze the whyfors on this one), the creepy Miguel dude, who, frankly, gave off some major icky, agonizing over Jason and Johnny's conditions, not knowing a damn thing either way, feeling like some kind of caged animal whose cage happened to be way prettier than a cage should ever be—it was all beginning to melt together in her head, like one big, nonsensical blob of anger, worry, fear, and confusion. She wanted to tear her hair out. She wanted to scream…

She wanted to go home.

Sighing dejectedly, Emily collapsed into an arm chair. This wasn't working. She should be trying to prop herself up, keep positive, optimistic, something… anything. Brooding wasn't going to do her any good at all. No, what she needed to do was just… just find a way to at the very least cope until Sonny had enough time to string something together and get her the hell out of here. And she knew he would. As much as she hated what her being kidnapped could end up costing Sonny and her brother in the end, deep down Emily knew that her speech to Alcazar had been utter crap. Sonny, if out nothing else but devotion to Jason, would do everything imaginable to bring her home. It was a comforting thought, but, also--when the idea of negotiations came into play--a not so comforting thought. Inwardly she wondered what Alcazar would ask of Sonny in exchange for her safe return. Probably something territorial, something pivotal, something big… something Sonny may actually give him. Emily cringed at the thought. What if Jason was so anxious for her return that Alcazar ended up getting way more than he could ever normally hope for? What if Alcazar--in a ruthless move she just knew he'd be more than capable of--managed to milk this for everything it was worth, and finagle himself into a position of outweighing control in the city? Emily gulped and skimmed a hand over the rising uneasiness in her belly. What if Sonny ended up losing his power in Port Charles over this?

No, her mind chided in vicious retort. Insanity. That would never—ever—happen. Pigs would fly first.

Emily coasted her brown eyes to her chamber doors. No matter how slick Alcazar thought himself, the ruin of Sonny Corinthos would only ever be a pipe-dream for him. A really nice thing to envision, no doubt, but what most would call an utter impossibility. Sonny and Jason were it in Port Charles. Sonny and Jason would always be it. Emily couldn't imagine a world where such a thing wasn't true. Her mind just couldn't go there.

But a place Emily did force her mind was back to the present, back to her lavishly decorated cage, as she had assessed it, and back to trying to find some way of keeping thoughts involving ruin and rescues far out of reach. With a weary sigh, Emily pulled herself up from the plush armchair and gave her surroundings a deliberate inspection. It—in all the time she'd actually spent in the room—had been the first time she'd truly looked at anything it held with any kind of real interest. Slowly her gaze traveled over aged walls and worn but polished floors, the rich fabrics that hung from taunting windows—tall and imposing windows that were ideal for escape but much too high off the ground for it as well, the lush ferns that grew sturdily in large stony pots, the—

An eager breath of wind kicked up already fluttering white window sheers, sending a spray of pure, vibrant yellow light into the airy chamber. Across the room, from atop a gorgeously carved dresser, flashed a glint of gold. Emily moved toward it with interest, all thoughts of her precarious situation momentarily forgotten…

-----

So, he was a glutton for punishment, or, perhaps, just a sucker for a spirited conversation with a surprisingly witty, and, admittedly, sharp-tongued female. Whatever the reason, Lorenzo once again found himself strutting confidently toward Elena—Emily's chamber. The things he'd purchased for her had arrived, and he was on his way to inform her. Clearly, after the complete mess their last encounter had turned into, the most logical choice would have been to send one of the servants to tell her. But, well, obviously, he hadn't gone quite that way.

Without knocking he pushed open the sound double doors and stepped inside. Out of long forgotten habit, his eyes drifted to the bed, but, finding it empty, scanned the rest of the room for Emily's small, robe-clad form. What his eyes happened upon was something he had—perhaps stupidly—not at all prepared himself to see… or hear. Emily stood by the dresser, Elena's music box in her hands, and, before Lorenzo could even wrap his mind around the image, he saw her carefully swing open the lid. A sweet, melancholy tune drifted from the golden box and Lorenzo felt his heart stop. Emily was reaching inside…

His reflexives returned with a vengeance and Lorenzo bound forward in a few inhumanely fast paces. Not caring how it was perceived in the least, he reached over Emily's shoulder and ripped the box from her hands.

Emily gasped and spun to face him. "Hey!" she yelled, eyes wide with surprise.

"This isn't for you," Lorenzo snapped. It was a quiet snap, more a growl, really, and he dimly registered the way the lines of her body stiffened but then softened as her dark eyes combed observantly through the scene that had just taken place. His heart was racing as he palmed the small box. He knew she was looking at him, appraising him in that annoyingly perceptive way she had, and, so, at that moment, he dared not meet her eyes. It was already bad enough that he had lost his composure in front of her, and in such a dramatic way, he saw no need to allow her any further access to him. Because he had no doubt that, with her piercing gaze, that was precisely what looking at her would accomplish here. And he wanted none of it.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice quieter, calmer than he had perhaps ever heard it to be. "That box, what is it about it that—"

"Never you mind." He growled, unpleased—yet again—with how tightly wound his words were.

His garish answer earned the expected reaction; Emily drew back from him a pace or two and held her small hands up in defense. "Whoa, look, don't get all bent, okay? I was just—"

Finally, unable to help himself any longer, he rounded on her, stopping her trail of words cold. "Snooping," he supplied harshly. "And it would be wise for you to never do it again."

Whatever softness, whatever concession he had seen in her, however muted, vanished at this. "Hey, wait a minute, here," she snapped back. "You're the one who stuck me in this room. If you have a problem with how I occupy my time then maybe you should—"

"And maybe you should recognize the value of silence, Ms. Quatermaine." He could see the anger coiling in her eyes, a slow burn in the honey brown depths. She open her mouth—undoubtedly for yet another knife-tongued comment, but Lorenzo, growing more weary by the second, cut her off with a glare. "As you so expertly put it, you're not a guest here, you are my prisoner, isn't that correct?" She gave no sign of agreement—not that he expected any. The mere idea was laughable. He was certain she'd rather keel over than give him so much as an inch. "Then, Ms. Quatermaine, since you are indeed my prisoner—I can plainly tell you see no use in sugar-coating it—then, may I suggest you start acting the part."

She parted her pursed lips to speak again, but Lorenzo still refused to give her the chance, nor the triumph—since that seemed to be what she came away with during the majority of their exchanges. "It was a mistake on my part to house you here," he said decisively, eyes floating to the door, fingers tightening around Elena's music box. "I'm moving you to the east wing."

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?"

Lorenzo, giving into a beastly impulse, made a deliberate, stalking move toward the tense brunette. "As a matter of fact," Lorenzo drawled, feeling a tingling flutter of victory bloom in his chest as he watched her narrowed, angry eyes track his encroachment with palpable apprehension. "It should mean a great deal. Your new quarters will be adjacent to mine."

"Yours?" she croaked, her mask of consummate unflappability cracking just so.

Lorenzo nodded, and then smiled, happy as a clown to have regained at least some of the control in their off-kilter relationship. He lifted the palmed music box into the light, looking pointedly from it to her. "Something tells me I need to keep a closer watch on you, and I can't think of a more convenient place than directly across the hall from your rooms to do just that. Can you?"

Again she didn't answer, only stared. And, as with her anger—which was most definitely present—he could see a grim acceptance in her eyes. She was no fool, for she understood—perhaps almost too well—the role she played in all of this. She was, in absolute and nonnegotiable truth, a prisoner. His prisoner. And while it was her duty to defy him at every turn, it was his to bend her to any will he so desired. And this was his will. And it would happen, no matter how loudly she protested or how viciously she fought him. And it was this intimate knowledge of how his world—how he—worked, that Lorenzo saw reflected in her gaze. He wasn't sure how to feel about that.

But neither the confusion, nor the moment lasted long; Emily, in a fashion he began to notice as characteristic of her, broke the ambiguous eye-contact with a terse straightening of her back and a sudden jut of her gaze. "Fine, move me. We both know I can't stop you. And besides," she added with a returned flare of attitude. "It's not like it really matters, anyway. It's only a matter of time before I'm free of this godforsaken place and back where I belong."

Lorenzo tilted his head to the side. "Is something wrong with your short-term memory?"

She huffed and turned her back to him, eyes peering through fluttering sheers. "If you think that because my brother is hurt Sonny will just sit back and do nothing, let himself be roped into negotiations with a man like you—" She practically spat the word. "—then you're an even bigger fool than I already pegged you for."

A fool? Wait—didn't he just have her silently seething--but submitting--a second ago? Lorenzo's free hand balled into a fist at his side. This was all wrong. How did he keep allowing her to put him on the defensive?

"The only fool I see here is you," he barked, bits of his famed control leaving him once more with every tense word he uttered. "You are barely more than a little girl playing at being something she has no conception of. Try as you may, Ms. Quatermaine, you're not the ice-princess you aspire to be. You're far too… hot blooded for that." Dark eyes roamed unabashedly over her still robe-clad form, knowing she couldn't see him indulging in the blatant exploration, but also knowing that she didn't have to. She was feeling it instead; her body language—a tensing of shoulder blades and a tugging of fabric—made that fact more than clear. "Oh, yes, far too hot blooded." He all but purred it.

At this—this—she flinched. And he felt another surge of golden victory, victory that fueled a truly interesting—albeit sinister—thought. If only looking roused this kind of response from her… imagine what something… more could do. He smirked evilly. Sure, it was underhanded, but it would definitely work. Why the hell hadn't he thought of this before?

He set down the music box and moved toward her, a predatory grace to his movements.

As with his previous inspection of her, he could see the way her shoulders jumped slightly with every ominous 'tap' of his shoes against the hardwood floor, and he noted—with a prickling in his gut that he couldn't identify—the way her breathing sped as he neared. Not to the point of being ragged or blatant, mind you, but a half second tightening of exhales that spoke volumes of her apprehension… of her unease.

And this was how it's supposed to be, his mind reminded him. Her on the teeter, her in the role of the unsure, the unsettled… the affected. Only once in his life had he ever played that part. And even then he'd had foolish, idealistic enthusiasm to blame it on. How dare—how dare—this little nothing of a girl even believe for a moment that she could force him to that same shaky edge. The edge he kept between him and that doomful path of emotions and… feeling things, of allowing for humanity, however slight, however out of practice, to break his surface of ice. He'd been there, done that. And it had ended up the same way most naive dreams do: in pieces. But, of course, even as his steps brought him closer to her, so close that his body hovered behind hers, only a breath between them, Lorenzo was aware that she knew nothing of what she roused in him. That the tiny girl in front of him, so near, so… scared, had no inkling of the emotions she brought forth. The frustration, the anger, the resentment, the bold, infuriating curiosity that baffled him, and then irritated him all over again. It wasn't right and it wasn't fair. She. Was. Nothing. But, yet…

At his side his hand twitched and his fingers curled. It was that damn 'yet' that kept tripping him up. There were no 'yets' in his line of work, no second guesses or second glances, just the people you wanted something from (i.e. Corinthos) and those you used up, plowed through, and bled dry to get it. And she was supposed to be one of those people. She was supposed to sit down, shut up, and tow the damn line, and he was supposed to tolerate her—if he wanted, belittle her—if he wanted, and dispose of her once the objective had been reached, as humanely or inhumanely as he saw fit. What she wasn't supposed to do was try and stand toe to toe with him, to flash her eyes indignantly, to laugh at him, to label him, to assume a goddamn thing about him. And he wasn't supposed to let her get to him. But he had. And he was tired of it. So far he'd played by the rules and all he'd gotten was mocked for it as she recklessly mowed down every single barrier he'd placed around her. Well, if she wasn't going to play by the rules of this little engagement—then neither was he.

With the barest of smiles, Lorenzo reach out to her, fingers brushing against the soft flesh of her neck…

-----

Pedro followed the scene as it played out on bated breath. Even he, a man whose nature could not in a billion years ever be considered romantic, could feel the pure heat that emanated from the room whose doorway he currently occupied--furtively of course. He clung to shadow as he watched Mr. Alcazar stalk toward the girl in liquid movements. And the guard/henchman/killer-on-command sucked in a breath when he saw his boss reach out and move the girl's mass of dark brown hair over her shoulder with one confident sweep, and then trail a steady hand down the back of her neck, while he ran his other hand intimately over the length of her arm.

His eyes bugged at the sight and Pedro retreated from the doorway. He almost felt like blushing, and he would have, had he not been, well, him. That moment he'd witnessed, the moment that was progressing even as he leaned against the hallway wall and groped for his cell phone, was not at all what he expected to see when Miguel instructed him to keep an eye on Lorenzo. No, this was… far more interesting than what he'd imagined, the guard mused.

With a triumphant smirk, Pedro came up with his phone and quickly dialed a familiar number.

Far more.

-----

"Are you kidding me?"

Jason, feeling just about the worst he could ever remember feeling, between the constant throb in his shoulder, the pulsating din of his ever-pounding head, and the ache in his chest that had not a damn thing to do with any physical injuries, cut a pair of unusually dull blue eyes to the man sitting next to him. "No, Sonny," he sighed. "I am not kidding you."

Sonny's own gaze flicked to the passing scenery of Cherry Lane, eyes darkening. "What are we doing here, Jason?"

The annoyance in Sonny's voice made Jason's jaw clench. "Do you not remember what we talked about at the hospital?" he shot back. "About me wanting to have a chat with your brother?"

"I was hoping it was the pain killers talking," Sonny mumbled into his hand.

He could feel it; the anger, the pure and raw frustration mounting so quickly it almost physically hurt. He didn't need this. His sister was gone and he didn't need to keep having the same stupid conversation with Sonny over, and over, and over. He didn't give a crap if Sonny had some unspoken truce going on with his whack job brother, or if that truce somehow prevented him from being rational—Jason couldn't afford to leave a single lead uninvestigated. And whether Sonny liked it or not, Ric was a viable lead. "He worked for Luis Alcazar, Sonny. You know this; I've said it all before, and if what you were preaching about back at the hospital held even an ounce of truth—"

Sonny leveled him with a warning glare. "You know it did."

"Well, then, this is your chance to prove it. Ric had a real connection to the Alcazars, something concrete."

The older man shook his head and stared broodingly at limo's tinted partition. "That was a long time ago, Jason."

"Don't you think I know that, Sonny?" Jason snapped. "I know that he's your… family--" Jason nearly choked on the word. "--and that you don't want to go stirring things up again. I know that this could be nothing, Sonny… but it could also be something."

The Limo made its stop curbside of 55 Cherry Lane, the Lansing residence, and Jason never took his eyes of Sonny's profile. "Can you just please give me this chance, Sonny," Jason said imploringly. "Just let me see what I can get out of him. Please. For Emily."

It took a long, long moment, but, with a stiff reluctance, Sonny gave the barest of nods. And that was all Jason needed.

-----

A flicker of movement registered on the monitor to Ric's left—the one mounted above his front door. A pair of tired, bloodshot, brown eyes pulled lazily to the screen, and Ric let loose a massive sigh at the two figures he saw approaching his porch. Jason… and Sonny.

Yippee.

-----

Elizabeth trailed glumly behind a quietly talking Nikolas and Lucky as the trio approached the front steps to the PCPD. Lucky had shown up on her doorstep with the formally MIA Nikolas in tow about a half hour ago, much to her immense relief. She couldn't label what she'd felt when she saw them both standing there, looking every bit as tired and beaten and unspeakably worried as her, that she'd kind of just fell forward into them. The embrace that met her was immediate and felt so much like a lifeline that it had honestly surprised her. But, then she supposed it shouldn't have. She'd been through hell and back with these people, and now one of them was missing and… and the only thing that made even an ounce of sense right now was being with them, the only ones that were left. And only them. Even if she did feel like an utter villain for just up and deserting Ric, who, surprisingly enough, seemed genuinely affected by Emily's kidnapping.

But that's just the kind of man he is, she told herself with a tiny, secret smile, remembering how her husband's strong arms had been like a permanent fixture around her since they'd gotten the news—a fact that had made leaving him a little more difficult than she'd expected. But, like Lucky had said, the three of them needed to stick together right now, just like how they had done the first time. Nothing but actually being able to see Emily again, with their own eyes, would ever make this a hundred percent okay, but, until that day came, Elizabeth had a feeling that being with Nikolas and Lucky was the only way any of them would survive this without losing it altogether. And so, with that thought firmly in mind, Elizabeth had left her house and her husband to go be proactive with what was left of the Four Musketeers.

And, apparently, her friends' idea of being proactive meant taking yet another trek to the police station. Personally, Elizabeth really didn't see the point (since Lucky had indeed been on the mark about Nikolas working with Sonny, going to the cops seemed kind of, well, pointless) but the boys were fixated, and if she'd learned anything about them after all these years of friendship, it was that stubbornness definitely ran in the family. It would have been like talking to a wall, and well, she was way too tired for that right now.

Since they'd left the house, Elizabeth had only caught snippets of their conversation, content enough to just let her own mind veer in their presence, happy that she felt safe and comfortable enough to do that. But, in between her mind's sad, reminiscent wanderings, she had managed to latch onto a few things. Something about a man named Andy, a plane that left town early this morning, and a screwy flight plan. But it wasn't until Elizabeth's ears met with the word "Alcazar", that Mrs. Lansing decided the present was most definitely the best place for her to be.

With a furled brow she leaned forward and tugged sharply on Nikolas' shirt sleeve. "Wait—A-Alcazar?" she asked, more than a little peeved at the squirm in her words, however justified it might have been. "But I thought—I mean, isn't he, like, dead?"

"It's a new one," Lucky supplied with a frown. "And if Sonny's men are right, it looks like kidnapping just might be a favorite Alcazar family pastime."

Her eyebrows drew together. "Sonny thinks that this new Alcazar guy took Em?" They boys nodded and she sighed. Heavily. "Then what are we doing here?" she demanded, exasperated, slim hands gesturing to their surroundings. "If you already know who did it then we're just wasting time in this place!"

Nikolas sighed and let a calming hand fall on Elizabeth's shoulder. "Sonny told us to come down here, Liz. We're trying to do out part here."

This only served to confuse her further. Sonny? Willfully sending people to cooperate with cops? Okay, when exactly did she enter the Twilight Zone, and where in the hell was the exit door? "You do realize that none of this makes sense, right?" she asked them, eyes flitting between their faces, faces that for a moment drew into understanding smiles.

"Yes, we realize, Liz," Lucky said gently. "We definitely realize. But we've still have to check in with Mac and see how things are going down here. It's what Sonny wanted and if we want to stay involved in his search, then we need to just do what he asks and not make any waves. Okay?"

"I guess…" she nodded, but, honestly, she really didn't understand at all.

Nikolas gave her shoulder a squeeze. "Come on, let's just get this over with," he said, beginning to cut a path down the busy hall. "The sooner it's done, the sooner we can get moving on something that's actually useful."

Lucky nodded and moved in step behind his brother, but, suddenly, Elizabeth didn't feel much like a chat with the Commissioner. "You know what?" she said, stopping the pair before they got any further down the hallway. "I think I'm just going to wait out here." She gestured to a wooden bench behind her and smiled. "You two go in and get your… details, or whatever. I'll just hang back."

Concern clouded their eyes, and Lucky and Nikolas moved back to her. "What's wrong?" Nikolas asked. "Why don't you want to come in with us?"

"Is it that you're…I don't know, afraid of what he'll say or something?" Lucky ventured gently.

Elizabeth's eyes sank to the floor guiltily. "Well, no… not exactly. I just…" her voice trailed off as she fumbled with herself. "Okay, well, maybe a little," She admitted, daring to lookup at them again. "I'm just not in the mood to hear another one of Mac's 'we'll get her back' speeches, all right. Because that's all he's going to give us, Lucky, and right now… right now I just don't think I can deal with that. It's empty. Well-intention, yes, but empty just the same. I'd much rather be hearing it come from Sonny or Jason. At least that way I know it's got real feeling and weight behind it."

"Liz, Mac's not going to—"

"Just go, you two. I'll be fine out here."

"Are you sure," they asked in unison.

She smiled and gave a nod. "I'm sure."

That seemed to satisfy them, and the boys turned and walked off down the corridor to Mac's new office. Once they were out of sight, Elizabeth let out a sigh and took that seat on the wooden bench. It was butt up against a wall dotted with offices, and she settled into it, leaning her head back against the wall and closing her eyes to the beehive of activity buzzing around her. Part of her wanted to go see Mac—just incase she'd been wrong—but another, bigger part was just plain old relieved that she'd dodged it. If anything Earth shattering—good or… bad—had happened, Lucky and Nikolas would tell her, and she preferred it that way.

"Somethin' up, Joe?"

Elizabeth's eyes drifted open at the voice. She looked to the left—where she supposed the voice had come from—and expected to see the speaker, but instead only saw that regular flurry of people rushing to and fro. Her brow furrowed. The voice had sounded so close. Almost like it was… And then it dawned in her. Leaning forward, she snaked her gaze up, brown eyes landing on a row of louvered windows above her head. It must have come from in there, she thought.

And then she heard another voice, this one meatier, and more guff. It echoed gravely through the open louvers.

"That was just Bonasera on the phone," the voice, presumably Joe, said. "Apparently, we got no forced entry."

Curiosity and boredom getting the best of her, Elizabeth arched her back just so, and waited with casually poised ears for the next volley of the conversation. There's nothing better to do out here anyway, she reasoned mischievously as she craned her neck upward to listen. Might as well entertain myself.

"What?" the other one croaked. "How is that even possible? The Terrace is like frigging Fort Knocks—ain't nobody getting' in that ain't supposed to unless they do some major Bash and Bolt."

Terrace? That's Emily's building. They're talking about Em's case… Elizabeth's ears perked up greedily and she tilted her head to the side, straining to get a better hold on what the detectives were saying.

"I know, I know," Joe said with a sigh. "But Bonasera said that the front entrance wasn't tampered with. Not a scratch on the gate or any sign of the tech being messed with on the keypad. But, here's the interesting part, man, she said the code tenants use to get inside the front gate is tenant specific and, like, top secret fucking information. This is state of the art stuff. I understand why Morgan put his sister up there—the place is supposed to be a fortress. Only the management office and the individual tenants are allowed to know these codes, which, also happen to be revolving—stripped, randomized, and reissued every two days at 8pm, four hours prior to the actual rollover for security reasons. And just guess which code Bonasera found in the gate's entry records at the time of the abduction?"

"The girl's?" the other man asked.

"Right in one, Danny my boy. 52569—" Elizabeth's stomach gave a nauseated jump. That was the code Emily had given her to use last night, the code she'd given to… "—that code was copied into the security system database at 1:07am—approximately an hour after the code rolled, and, according to the girl's bodyguard, about when she hit the hay, leading me to believe that either the guys that scooped the Quatermaine girl were freakin' clairvoyant, or that somebody gave our boys a little helping hand."

"Yeah, obviously, but who, Joe? Who the hell would be crazy enough to lead kidnappers straight to Jason Morgan's kid sister? It's suicide."

"Well, I mean, yeah, Morgan and Corinthos are pretty damn formidable and all that, but lets not forget that amassing enemies is just the sort of thing these types do best. And getting that code? Hell, throw enough money at somebody or stick a nice shiny glock in a guys neck and there's no door that isn't open to you. And, if you wanted my opinion, I'd tell you that, judging by the bang up job that crew did on Morgan and O'Brien, this had nothing to do with the Q-girl or her money. Whoever did this had only one thing on their mind: Corinthos…and how to break the bastard."

Elizabeth bit her lip near to the point of drawing blood as a silence fell between the two detectives. She closed her eyes and waited, waited desperately for one to say to the other something—anything—that would take away the curdling of doubt in her gut, that would dispel the horrible, implausible, irrational, bubbling of uncertainty that she could feel niggling at the corners of her mind, allowing her to entertain thoughts that no good, self-respecting, loyal wife should ever dream of entertaining… Mercifully, after a long moment, the pregnant silence was broken by the one named Danny, and Elizabeth once again latched onto their words from her perch outside their office.

"Okay, so we got the motivation for the bagging, now I say we hit the management office first to get a lock on the 'who' part. That's the most logical point of origin for the breach."

Before Joe could answer, the shrill buzz of a telephone erupted inside the office. It was answered on the second ring and all Elizabeth could make out were a few unintelligible grunts of agreement, followed by a deflated sound 'see, ya'.

"Well, there went that bubble," Joe groaned. "That was Garrick. He and Marshal already went the management route. Garrick said that they got a head start on the interviews a couple hours ago, just got out now. They rounded up a group of four shift employees and the actual security manager himself, who, according to Garrick, was the only guy on shift when the new number sequences were randomized by the security system at eight o'clock last night. He says the guy handed 'em out--" Elizabeth's mind, swimming at this point, flashed back to the nice, elderly man that had showed up at Emily's Penthouse last night to give her the new gate code. The gate code that she had in turn had relayed to… Elizabeth's gut clenched violently. "—and then called it a day, left the surveillance to the night watchmen, and headed home."

Danny snorted. "All that tech creating a freakin' modern-day castle for God's sake, and the integrity of it all comes down to a pimply-faced, Police Academy dropout toting a Mag-Lite." He exhaled gruffly. "Goddamn tragedy, that is…"

"I hear, ya," Joe sympathized through a sigh. "But at least Garrick and Marshal came up with something. No we know that the leak couldn't have come from the management end."

"Wait—what about after he packed it in? Did Garrick ask him if he got stopped on the way home, threatened or anything?"

"Nothing. The manager guy, ah… Lenny Morawitz, said he got in a cab a little ways up the block and then from there it was a straight shot home. He didn't give that code to anybody but Emily Quatermaine, Dan. It had to have been obtained after the fact."

"You're not thinking inside job here are you?"

"Damn straight I am. I don't know what other avenues we got here."

Elizabeth's breathing quickened at this, and she skimmed a hand over the ever rising twitch of unease in her stomach.

"Got anybody concrete in mind?"

"Well, there is that bodyguard, I guess, but let's face it, the guy almost friggin' bought it trying to save the Quatermaine girl. I think that says enough about his character, and his loyalties."

"You can't be too sure, Joe. Maybe the guy got backed into a corner by some of Morgan and Corinthos' enemies, gave up the code, and then grew a conscience last minute and tried to rectify his fuck-up."

"You know what? I don't buy it. I mean, you were there, Dan, didn't you see the look in O'Brien's eyes? The guy's reeling. My guess is that he really cares about her. Why the hell would he clear a path for a bunch of thugs and then let it all go sour? Even if he survived the backlash from the kidnappers, Morgan would personally strap a bag of bricks to around his ankles and dump the poor bastard in the river. No," Joe said with conviction. "They didn't get the code from him."

"Okay," the one named Danny sighed. "So, if the leak didn't come from Management or the bodyguard, who in the holy hell does that leave us with?"

Joe let out a gruff laugh, his chair squeaking something wicked as he presumably got to his feet again. "I don't have a clue, pal. But I say we stop chatting about this and get to work already before the Wonder Twins clear this thing without us. Let's hammer out a timeline, start laying a net, and get a list of people who came in contact with her after 8pm last night."

"You wanna start by shaking some trees over at the girl's family; see what falls out? I mean, I know it probably ain't much…"

"It sure as hell ain't, but right now it's all we got." There was a deep sigh, a ruffling of papers, and then: "Come on; shake a leg, Danny Boy, we got some miracles to work."

She then heard the sudden scuffle of shoes across linoleum and panicked; she slid down to the far end of the bench and tried desperately to look innocent as the two detectives exited the office and closed the door behind them. One of them—older with a bushy head of graying hair, probably Joe—smiled kindly at her as he passed. She smiled back, but her heart wasn't in it. No, because in that instant their words began to replay, rattling off hauntingly inside her head...

'…Somebody gave our boys a little helping hand…'

'…Who the hell would be crazy enough to lead kidnappers straight to Jason Morgan's kid sister…?'

'…So, if the leak didn't come from Management or the bodyguard, what in the holy hell does that leave us with…?'

'…It had to have been obtained after the fact…'

'…You're not thinking inside job here, are you…?'

'…Whoever did this had only one thing on their mind: Corinthos…and how to break the bastard…'

And then, finally, her husband's voice blew across her mind like a stiff, sobering wind.

'……Why don't you just give me the code and I'll let myself in. That way you can relax with Emily and the others until I get there……'

But he never did get there, a tiny, cruel voice taunted her, did he? No. He called right back. Rattled off some slapped together excuse that you knew was a lie. You did just what he wanted, the voice prodded again, sounding like Carly for some absurd reason. You ignored what your gut said and played right into his hands, didn't you, Lizzie?

Didn't you?

Shaking hands clamped over a face stricken with disbelief, and sent ashen by the unthinkable. Elizabeth chocked back a sob.

Oh, God…

-----

TBC…

(a/n) Are you still with me? I didn't put you to sleep with the sheer hugeass-ness of the chap, did I? Wouldn't blame you if I did; I think this bad-boy set some sort of record or something, lol.. Anyway, mucho thanks to all of you for seeing this installment all the way though, even down here. You al kick much ass. :o) On with the note…

She's putting it together!!! Liz is figuring it out!!! (even if I did do it in a totally played out way that just screams "plot device!!") lol Imagine, she'll actually piece together the truth without being slapped in the face with it (remember how long it took her to figure out the Carly/Panic Room bit. Liz had to practically trip over Carly-Babes before she got her 'Eureka' moment). And yup, Liz will figure everything out—but it won't play out like how you think (or at least I hope not). And what did you guys think of Sonny being the one dishing out the wake-up call for once? LOL. I know that was a total switch—character wise—but it just had to be done. Jason needed to be set straight. He was getting too deep into this "Only I can save her" crap that I think Sonny was probably the only one who could get him to realize that, dude, it ain't only about you, that it's really not admitting defeat or being less of a big brother to allow others to help out. Anyway, I think I finally fixed Jason's tunnel-vision.

Let's see, what else… Oh! The Elena stuff is going to begin its unraveling. More of the back story will be revealed, and for those of you who commented on how you enjoy the storyline parallels—look for more. Oh, and about Lorenzo's slightly… lecherous behavior… I hope it wasn't too over the top, but I felt it needed to be in there. IMO, the way he handled that moment was very un-Lorenzo, but then very Lorenzo at the same time (confusing much?). He was rattled by Emily touching the Music box and kind of, well, really pissed off by her comments and unwillingness to wilt at his outburst, not to mention the fact that she got him to even have an outburst to begin with, so, he lashed out by playing the sex card—a card he knew would be golden. Don't hate him. It's all going towards establishing the bond between them. And there will be a bond. And, also, I'm very sorry for leaving you all hanging on this one… the next chap will kick start with them. Promise!

And, lastly, I know I complain about my stuff a lot, but I please don't think I'm doing it to get the sympathy compliment or to solicit praise—because I'm not. It's just that I read and reread this stuff so many times that by the time its ready for post, I'm just damn sick of it. It's like I can't read it without laughing my ass off. Do you know what I mean? Anyway, I promise, from here on out, no more dissing my own work. I'll write, type and post and hope for the best—no explanations and no excuses. :o)

Next Chapter:

Bye for now and don't forget to review!!! See ya! Loke