Like the way a
Jungle of smells
After a wild rain are
Inseperable,
Ineveitable.
10 years later
"Rise and shine, doll, the world's yours to conquer!" the woman's wavy blond hair glistened glossily, her violet eyes shimmering as she grinned at her editor who had fallen asleep again on the leather sofa, her legs sprawled all over. Her eyes wandered over the floor with a slight flinch; a maze of papers tiled the floor.
The tenth time in the past month.
"Millerna," she groaned. Blurred images melted together to form a palette of colors—until a few moments later, they sharpened into objects and her vision cleared. "I swear, I might tell Jeff to fire you," she joked.
"Aha," Millerna pouted, "and who'll poke you to wake up in his meetings?"
"Good point." Hitomi Kanzaki, age twenty-seven, wiped away the last remains of her sleep with a good routine of eye-rubbing. "Wha—what time is it?"
"Hmm," Milly looked her watch, "quarter after six."
"Oh shit," she stumbled up, her hair a hairdresser's nightmare with tangles and knots. "Look, Milly," she shrugged on a cream, dressy, coat, "I'll go make myself presentable—will be back in about forty or so minutes."
"Yup, no problem," she grinned. "Don't worry, nobody'll know about the new security woman who sleeps here," she winked.
"They better not," she mumbled, as she exited through the door with a bang.
A gentle smile still curved Millerna's lips as she stared at the picture in her portfolio, "Perfect," she murmured. "He's perfect."
OOO
"Remi's doing coverage for that sex scandal," Millerna bit her lip, as she sorted through out her papers.
"Elyssa? What's she doing?"
"Ahh, Elyssa's working on the fashion column for autumn; Jane's doing the little spin on diabetes." Thus begun Hitomi Kanzaki's day of work as an editor for one of the most prestigious women's magazine, Glow.
"Alright," she irritably took out the pencil she'd placed behind her ears, "tell 'Lyssa we have a meeting scheduled tommorow at ten, sharp." Her eyes wandered over the desk of papers she still had to sort out. But, instead, she looked up to see Millerna gazing in anticipation at her. "Yes?"
She grinned, "We have a little assignment."
"Assignment? For whom? We can put it for the next issue."
"No no, this one's from Jeff."
Ahh, she'd better pay attention to this one. "What is it?"
"The Dare."
"What?" she sputtered, choking on her coffee. Her hands turning into fists, she bit her lips, "Now?"
"Yes," the violent eyed woman grinned cheekily.
Ahh, the dreaded Dare. Jeffery Bowman had prided in competent editors for his magazine, in their creative minds, intellect, and of-course—stealth. But, unfortunately, many came lacking in the last department and with each new editor, an almost impossible assignment was given to them to complete, usually interviews from extremely reluctant individuals. But that, that was what kept people hooked onto Glow magazine, their attraction lay in digging the skeletons of people's pasts.
"What is it?" she sat on her desk.
"Interview the person, write an article."
She scowled, "Oh yes, A for your articulation, Milly."
Shooting her a sly grin, "Check it out for yourself," with that, she slid the folder she had been carrying onto her desk. Smiling widely, she left the office.
Hitomi stared at the folder, the olive colored rectangular piece that looked forlorn on her pile. Slowly, she brought it close to her, gently turned it's flap to face a photograph.
She paled, not realizing, she'd gasped.
Tawny hair, the hues of the night sky, over an angular, chiseled face, finished with a polish of tan skin. His eyes were what drew her, hypnotized her—once again; they were fierce, magnetic, the photographer catching the subtle shade of maroon which in chemical terms would be classified as a methyl red. There was something that bordered on barbaric on his face, primitive in the sense that he perceived everything with his eyes, the contrast highlighted by the dark, professional suit he wore that only made him seem like a sleek panther pretending to be tame.
He could be no other.
Van Fanel.
Her mind reeled, feeling as if she was once again an immature girl of seventeen, her eyes, a well of childish fantasies and dreams.
But this Hitomi Kanzaki was twenty-seven, not seventeen, and most importantly, she was no longer an insignificant individual, but one that men sought for her wit, a certain attraction that they could never pin. She was not beautiful in that modelesque sense, not even in that pure, wholesome look; no, there was a quality of realism about her, this state of connection she developed with people, while others like her seemed distant and detached.
Maybe that was her secret.
She delved into them, their minds, their secret dreams and desires, with a face that that had seen it all; seen those very beautiful dreams being made, being broken and crushed, and yet, all of this added character, added steel and determination.
Her eyes lowered into the type-written profile, and she read of the changes that had befallen her once-love. Only once, had she ever felt that way, given herself away like that, to anyone, ever loved anyone so. Later times, it was always different; perhaps, they were right, there was something special about first loves.
Name: Van Slanzar de Fanel Occupation: Buys and sells companies Affluence: Multi-millionaire; nobody really knows how much he has for sure Stats: 6ft 2.5 inches; datingAge: 27
Voted as People Magazine's Fifty Most Beautiful People in 2004. He's notorious for being ruthless in his buying and selling; doesn't take pity, but, nobody blames him for being unfair, unjust in his approach. Not quite a ladies-man, he certainly attracts enough to have each hour of his calendar filled, but rejects them. Very particular with them; relationships don't last long with females. Possibly hiding secrets of his past. Nobody knows much of it. Has wealth, but prefers to live in a quarter million dollar home rather than the twenty-five million dollar castle/manor.Your assignment: Dig into him. Find out about his personal life; sex life, his relationship problems, the balance in his bank account(s), and all you can about his past. Currently dating a mysterious, woman whose name hasn't been revealed, who hasn't been spotted with him either. Get her name and stats. If successful, cover page for the February Valentine issue.
Time allotted for assignment: 1 month
She looked at the paper still dazed and read it for another time.
Ohh shit, you're a dead woman, Hitomi. There was absolutely no way she could do this! No way—!
As if her silent thoughts had been broadcasted on a loud speaker, a phone rang. Hastily, she made a grab for it, "Hitomi Kanzaki, yes?"
"Ahh, Hitomi!" the light voice said with enthusiasm, "I trust you got the folder?" Uh oh, this was Jeff.
She laughed nervously, "Yes, received it, read it."
"Excellent! Get to work ASAP! Hitomi, if you could get this, it'll be our big break! Do you realize the enormous appeal? This guy has practically denied all information to the press; avoids them like crazy! They had to bribe the doctor to get his damn physical stats—who, of-course—got his pants sued off once Fanel found out!"
A genuine laugh escaped her lips, "I'm not surprised."
"What did you say?"
Her tone became more serious, "Jeff, see, I can't do this. I mean, not him. " She paused for a moment, "I once knew him, and things weren't…pretty."
He gasped, "Do you realize how perfect this offer is! You'll be famous for breaking into his fortress!"
"Jeff…" she groaned.
"Look, Hitomi," his voice became crisp in its professional note, "You have to do this; you're a damn good editor and even a better writer, and I hate to lose you. What makes you different from everyone other writer I've known? You don't just write for the money, you take it personally, you retrieve things that nobody does, the insignificant aspects that light all the major ones." Ohh, he didn't just how personal this assignment was, "I know you can do this. Use your personal advantage; captivate him, go get a new wardrobe—anything. Got that, 'Tomi?"
"Yeah," she sighed, and waited for another perky speech from her boss.
But with a click, he hung up, leaving Hitomi penseive and frowning.
Alright, Mr. Fanel, prepare for a blast from the past.
OOO
"Trash," his voice swiftly commanded his secretary.
The secretary whimpered, "But it's an invitee from Nicole Kidman!"
A sardonic dark brow rose, "There's something alarming about a woman whom I have never met, who publicly announces to billions of people she wouldn't mind licking me."
The secretary, a brown-haired young man of twenty-five named, Michael Reynolds, clutched the envelope to his chest. There was no question; Reynolds wouldn't mind any part of his body being licked by the woman.
"Reynolds, I'll throw you out if you keep drooling over mails that need to be trashed!" his off-handed voice sounded harsh, with an edge of irritation. No, Van Fanel could never fire him; Reynolds had been there from the beginning, helped him when his business was a fledgling. He softened his tone as he saw the stubborn stance of his friend, "Fine, you can go representing me. Tell her I couldn't attend."
He made an elaborate display of kissing the envelope, "Ahh, the generosity shines in you, boss!"
"Shut up." He didn't like being called generous, no saintly descriptions for such a dark man. He'd sinned enough in his years.
Reynolds' voice quieted, not because of the command—no the man was too infuriating to take anything his boss said seriously, "Fanel, there's a note that says your dad's coming to see you tomorrow."
He stilled for a minute second, "I don't want to see him."
Wisely, he the blue-eyed man put the note away and preceded to shred papers systematically.
Gazing over the horizon, Van Fanel observed the sun retiring for the night and vaguely, he wondered where his own home was, where he could head at night.
OOO
Glancing at the mirror nervously for the fourth time, Hitomi Kanzaki adjusted her hair, placing a stubborn golden-brown strand behind her ear that had come free of her chignon.
Smiling at the front office clerk, she nodded, "I have an appointment with Mr. Fanel for today."
"What time did he assign you, miss?"
"Around now," she lied smoothly.
"Alright," clicking at the keyboard, she checked her database and Hitomi chewed on her lips, waiting for the rejection— "Ah, yes, he does have a visitor appointed at this time," she frowned, "but no name."
Which never would come.
Unbeknownst when she made her silent thanks, she was making it to Reynolds who'd allotted this time for Van's father—of-course, telling him only this morning. Van had defiantly told him to label it as a "visitor" instead of his proper name; he wanted nothing to do with Gaou.
Pressing a button, Hitomi noticed with a cynical ear that the woman's voice became a soft, husky like honey, "Yes, Mr. Fanel, your visitor's here…" she paused for a moment, "Yes, right away."
Glancing up at her, the woman looked at her scrutinously, "He's calling you up."
"Up? Which floor?"
"Forthieth floor, and the door to the right."
"Thank-you."
The blonde woman didn't even glance at her, but hastily picked up the phone. "Yeah, Marlee, I knoow, Mr. Fanel, I swear, his voice became seductive…" the woman squealed, "I just talked to him a few moments ago..."
Rolling her eyes, Hitomi tried to fortify herself for the encounter. Dressed in a silvery-gray business suit, and a dressy white shirt, she looked professional, her composed face possessing a sort of dignity.
Entering the deserted elevator, she scanned the numbers and punch the number 40 with her index finger. As the door to the elevator closed, she sent a quick prayer heavenward and steadied her nerves.
She felt like a youngster out to apply for a job, a virgin with jumbled anxiety—when in reality, being neither of those.
OOO
"Reynolds," he shrugged into his coat, running a careless hand through his hair, "I could murder you." Van Fanel shot him a penertrating, hard stare.
"Excellent; you're yourself," he smiled dismissively, arranging papers, "I'd hospitalize you if you mumbled any loving words."
"Yes, and if this doesn't go well, I'll clip your tongue."
"Ouch," he said dramatically, "don't get too graphic on m—" He stopped short, when knocks, hard and confident, sounded on the door. "Good luck, buddy."
"Get the door," Van said quietly, seating himself into a chair.
Hastily straightening his tie, Michael headed towards the door, but right when he had gone to turn the knob, the visitor took the liberty to do it by themselves.
Both gaped.
A chignon wrapped her wheaten locks (which he'd itched later to let unfurl, loosen), her eyebrows graceful in an arch, her eyes still vibrantly green, lined lightly by brown (that he wanted to wipe away with his thumb, trail across other places…), and her lips were coral, devoid of any gloss or make-up. A slight color decorated her cheeks, too naturally placed to be the product of an artificial blush.
Her body—
"Last time, I checked, you didn't scrutinize people like in a horse sale, but businesses," her voice was musical, warm like the sunlight that danced outside on trees. And he remembered a time when words from her mouth had danced on his very own skin.
Hitomi Kanzaki.
He felt that he had slipped into a dream, a lazy fantasy that he wanted to not get up from. He blinked, once, twice, thrice, then it hit him. He despised that slight smile on her face, the candor in her eyes. Damn her! How could she still be smiling? How could she go on? How could she be so remote…so detached? So cool, so…heavenly.
And he felt like a sinner too jaded to touch the doors of paradise.
But, this was no dream. And it was no illusion either that Michael looked at her like a man besotted, awed.
His voice was so cold that it would elicit shivers in tropical weather, "What. Are. You. Doing. Here?"
She blinked as if maybe surprised, "I need to talk to you." Perhaps, in her heart of hearts, she'd hoped, just wished, with this slight thought that maybe he'd welcome her back, be shaken by her as she'd been by his sight. The pictures—they didn't do justice to him. In life…he was quite, quite something else—and she didn't realize that it exactly mirrored her initial thoughts of him ten years ago.
"Who let you in here?" he asked arrogantly. Michael had dropped into the background.
Anger curled her lips, "Your front desk clerk who's half in love with you. Isn't everyone just dying for some attention from you?" This was no longer the sweet Van who in his roughness was tender; this was no longer, importantly, her Van.
"Stop," his face was pinched. "What do you want to talk about? I have a meeting to attend in a few minutes." He lied. He had to attend a meeting four hours later.
"Well," she gave a dry chuckle, "I'm afraid, ten years won't be summed in a few minutes." You're right, his mind voiced, it will need very many days, very many nights and very many ways in which to have you, to make up for the ten years. He discreetly observed the changes the years had wrought on her; she was curvaceous, not fashionably skin and bones—but possessing a certain grace that followed her as if she was comfortable with herself.
"You're right, Miss. Kanzaki," he paused for a moment and raised a brow, "it is Miss, is it not?"
"Yes," she hissed, somehow peeved.
"Ah, well, you can meet me for dinner tonight." He said so dismissively, so coolly that she had a sudden, sudden urge…to slap him.
"Maybe, I can't," she bit off, too late to realize that this wasn't a date that he'd asked out of his own want, but out of hers. She needed this.
"Well, I'm afraid, it isn't your choice, Ms. Kanzaki. You do want your interview, don't you?"
"How did you know it was an interview?"
A familiar cynical twist of his lips and he smiled, "Hitomi Kanzkai; age twenty seven, editor of Glow magazine, wears a petite eight, shops at--."
She fought the blush, realizing that another man was present in the room; for God's sake, the man had said her size out loud! "Shut up."
"What did you say?"
"I said, shut up, Mr. Fanel."
"I see you haven't changed," he leaned back into his chair, her defiant speech, somehow warming him in the oddest manner, "still that scissor-like tongue."
She snorted inwardly, "And you haven't either—where it counted most."
He was quiet for a moment, the only sound being her ragged breaths, "I'll pick you up at seven thirty, tonight."
She smiled dryly, "I am to suppose you know my address?"
"Yes," a shadow of a smile curved on his lips. "I do know."
Still standing, she turned on her heel and nodded to Michael. Extending her hand, she grinned, "Pleasure to meet you."
A slow grin crossed Reynolds' face, his eyes shining like twin sapphires, "The pleasure, I assure you, is entirely mine."
She smiled widely and left the room with a soft click.
"Michael?" the voice was rough.
"Yes, boss?" he was still smiling, a vague sort of expression only later to realize that his boss had addressed him by his first name.
"The next time you hold her hand will be your last time."
He chuckled ironically, "Yeah, boss, your threats are growing old on me."
"I swear—"
"The tenth time you've sworn in the day," he pointed out.
"This time I'm bloody serious, damn you!" His fists shook, and only later did he notice that his palms had fisted in the first place.
The blue-eyed man's voice was grim as he spoke, and this time it was in the manner of a close friend. "Look Van, I don't have a clue what the hell is your problem. I'm interested in her, you're not and you made it apparent." He bit sarcastically, "And if you think you're a hot-shot, well, I'm considerably wealthy, with more-than-decent looks, and an adequate intellect. Everything a woman wants. This is where we differ: you, Van Fanel, crushed her with your foot, you were consistently rude." Van winced at the words, somehow jarring him. Hell, the day Michael's words affected him would be the day he'd start writing poetry again—which would be today, as it had done just that. "And she, my God, she's got guts to come to you without an appointment." Michael smiled wickedly, "Maybe that's why I like her so much; she whipped you good, man."
"She did not!" he exclaimed in outrage.
"Who is she?"
He had a mad desire to break something, just something! Hmm…maybe Michael's neck… "She was my girl-friend ten years ago." The admission was slow, as if he'd just come to realize it himself.
The blue-eyed man's mouth formed an 'O.' "Old flame. I didn't know you were the jealous type."
"Just stay away from her, Michael, or I promise you," he looked at him in an oddly fierce way, "I will fire you."
He arched a brow, "'Kay, got it, boss. She's hands-off to me."
"Yes," he calmed, "exactly. Eyes-off, hands-off, thoughts-off, and dreams-off to you."
"But," he smiled, alarmed at the back of his mind that a man could be so—protective, "if she seeks me, you can't stop it."
He scowled, "If she seeks you I'll be damned."
He shook his head, "You know, I don't understand you. You'd kill me if I even imagined her with me, let alone touch her, and yet—" his blue eyes locked onto the figure, "you shun her as if she's some sort of rag that you find distasteful. What the hell happened to you two?"
"None of your business."
"Well, that went well." He massaged his neck, as if physically tired from the conversation.
"By the way, Reynolds?"
"Yeah?"
"What the hell happened to my dad?"
Frowning, he mused, "I haven't a bloody idea."
OOO
"Mill, what do you think of this?" she brandished a chic black dress that reached her calves.
"Hmm," Millerna Aston, more than a co-worker, was Hitomi Kanzaki's best friend. "Not this one; too plain," watching Hitomi's face fall. It was six o'clock and they'd gone through a dozen dresses at least. She sighed; she felt like she was going to the prom. "Hey, 'Tomi," her eyes snapped back to her friend who was rummaging through her closet, "What about this one?"
It was yet another black dress, with straps that circled her neck, form-hugging with a gauzy fabric over the tulle, hitting in triangular pieces at her calves. "It's perfect. Not casual, yet not too dressy." She gave a huge smile at her friend, though shuddered as she thought of a pair of sandalwood eyes, the way they had roamed over her, like some sort of deprived animal.
Some part of her didn't even understand why she wanted to look beautiful for him, why she had wanted a warm welcome, see if he had missed her like in the romantic movies where the hero pined for the woman who were destined to be, but separated by circumstances.
Right, except the circumstances weren't parents and or not realizing how much they loved each other at the time—in her case, it pertained to his sexual acitivities, and Hitomi's overwhelming attraction for him—which was not reciprocal.
Hitomi pursed her lips; she'd skip the elaborate make-up routine today.
She held the dress to herself, remembering that the last time she had worn it (aeons ago…) it had clung to her curves so that even Jeff, who was blind to womanly wiles, had commented on it. Oh well, she would still go with it. Better if he would be distracted by her body; maybe, then it would be easier to let slip something he'd want to hide.
OOO
Cinderella's magical moment had approached; it was seven. A lone, shiny black limousine slithered up the driveway to her apartment and Hitomi watched with fascination, its glossy color mesmerizing.
Certainly, even though she was aware of Van Fanel's wealth, she did not think it would pause for her.
It did.
The door opened, her arms slackened, her eyes blinking like mini-fans, and out came Van Fanel.
No man, no human, deserved to look so good! It was a little disconcerting that a man such as him could get such romantic eyelashes without applying mascara, a honey-toned skin without sitting in a tanning booth, a muscled lean form with a desk job. His eyebrows were dark, his lips chiseled, carved and smooth.
A small smile leaned to the side of his lips, and he spoke, startling her out of her moment of fascination. "You look good enough to eat." He dripped of casual elegance, of posh aristocracy, in an Armani suit and a crisp white shirt. But this Hitomi Kanzaki was not naïve; she'd caught the double meanings…even though she was sure, sure as the sliver of moon that hung in the sky, that he didn't want her.
Want her forever, and beyond, that is.
Ahh, that was the complicating thing about men; they said one thing, but they could mean another. Men were fatal to sentimental women who read the slightest gestures of a man as the dawn of a new romance supplied with a happily-ever-after and a love-conquers-all.
But she was over that; she was definite love, the love-you-till-death-do-us-part did not exist, for her at least. Her fingers coiled; love was loyal, in all the senses. And if her theories couldn't be proven, then she'd rather not marry at all.
She shot him an icy smile, "You don't look like chopped liver yourself."
"Shall we leave?" he opened the door for her.
She nodded, stepping into the limo gingerly and sinking into the leather seats. He sat beside her, and grabbing the phone at the side, "Al, let's go."
"Where are we going?" she asked curiously.
"The Abaharaki." He said crisply, inhaling deeply. The Abaharaki was a five star hotel, whose one meal could cost how much she earned in three months at her high-salary job.
"Phew," she looked at the winking, city lights (that somehow seemed particularly beautiful at the moment—but maybe she wouldn't have noticed their beauty if she wasn't avoiding looking at the man sitting beside her), "You like to play it grand, don't you? Do you do that with all people?"
He looked at her oddly, his brows tugging into a dubious frown, "No, very rarely. You're an exception. Though," he hung the bait, waiting for her eyes to meet his; they did, a startling combination of intelligence and curiosity, "you're welcome to play with me anytime…grand style," he choked on the word and Hitomi's eyes widened. Ohh great, damn her mouth for saying that; and she was an editor, huh?
"Mr. Fanel," she glared at him, "I hope you can control that tongue of yours."
He bit his lip which made them quiver, and then uncontrollable laughter poured out something that she found soothing—and yet for the fact that she found it so—annoyed her. "My tongue is one of the many things I don't think I could ever," he tried to keep his face straight, "control near you."
If the comment had affected her, she had done an excellent job of masking it and looked at him straight in the eye, her cheeks refusing to blush, refusing to submit. If Mr. Fanel expected a flushing school-girl, he'd have to go back many, many years. "I see you've improved in the matters of connotations—though your choice of the former, I would not exactly boast."
"And," he shoveled his fingers through his hair, such an unprofessional act that it momentarily caught her attention, the deep, rich strands bending like Elysium fields, "you still can't add two and two together."
"Speaking of addition," she leaned her head to the side of the window, choosing to ignore his cryptic statement, "I suppose your bank accounts have been growing quite healthily in the past few years."
"I suppose," he said, mulling over the words.
"Care to share the zeros?"
His eyes twinkled, not the innocent-boyish type, but this dangerous manner in which he could switch from being humorous to…lethal, "I wouldn't mind sharing many things but the zeros, I do mind."
Her lips pursed, "I wish you'd stop."
"Stop?" his damning brows furrowed as if he cared.
Her rebellious irises met his, the brilliant jade colliding with red-mahogany, "All of these statements—it's not like that anymore—we're not like that anymore," she didn't realize how close he was to her and inched back, but he only scooted closer.
"Not like what?" he whispered.
"Look," she sighed exasperatedly, "let's get over with what happened years ago; give me my interview, you go on with your life, and let me go on with mine…unscathed."
He looked at her for a moment, disgust lifting his lips into a tight smile, "Yes, I come to haunt you every damned time just to hurt you, is that so?" Haunt her? He had lived, been locked into a recess of her heart, this remote spot she would sometimes sink into.
Her fingers actually shook, and she trembled, a reaction so alien to her, that she scolded herself.
He caught the shiver, his eyes searching her, and looking away, he cursed softly, "I'm sorry. I don't seem to have ever done well with my words."
She wanted to add bitterly… he did even worse with his actions.
Giving her a side-glance, he continued, "Nothing will happen that you don't want to."
"Oh right," she said sarcastically. "Your assurance is positively relaxing."
"And your humor is sinking into negative levels," a soft smile melted onto his face, gentling his features, and he spoke reflectively, "you always did that when you were nervous."
"Some would wonder why you'd remember that…hmm," she thought aloud mockingly, "maybe it has to do with the fact that you had uncanny ability to make me nervous?"
"Hitomi," the name was murmured lightly, delicately like a gentle, fleetingly beautiful note in a song whose memory still lingered.
"Wha—" It had completely halted all her thought; no, the way he called her…it had elicted a feeling, a memory of so long ago, of sweetness and tenderness, of a burning ache, of welcomed flames.
He pressed his fingers over her lips and grinned in that leisure manner, with twinkling eyes that silently promised, "You should learn how to better use your tongue."
Maybe he'd thought it would disarm her, or silence her, but it had the opposite effect. She was furious. "Oh," her eyes were green flames, hot, blistering, "is that how you view general females? Their tongues are," her gulp was almost imperceptible, but only almost and Van Fanel caught it, bringing a mental smile, "simply made for other purposes?" She didn't have to elaborate on her accusation as he gazed at her shrewdly.
"You know," he continued to stare at her as if she was this scientific enigma, "you always take things the wrong way, don't you?"
"Mr. Fanel," she snapped, "we aren't here to analyze my peculiarities—"
"That'll be Van. Mr. Fanel is my father."
"Oh," the innocent statement caught her off-guard, "Van."
It was as if in that moment something had broken, something had crashed, a veil had been lifted. His name held his essence that she'd wanted to deny, and with its avoidance she could somehow maintain her cool with using his last name, maintain this certain detachment from him, convince herself that this tall man was different from her Van.
The cell phone rang breaking the strange spell, its shrill tones having the effect of an alarm clock as it signaled the time to wake to reality.
He blinked his eyes in a jerky fashion, and hastily turned to fetch his phone, "Van?" The words on the other line were spoken hastily, loudly…
…and Hitomi Kanzaki watched Van Fanel first time in his life pale like a ghost.
"I'll be right there!" he said into the phone. He snapped it shut, and opened the window separating the driver and themselves, and spoke, "Al, head towards Moses Cone."
"Van—what happened?" she frowned.
"Sorry," his body was stiff like death, "there's a change of plans. I can't take you to dinner tonight," he warred with an expression of anxiety and sorrow.
"What's the matter?"
He took in a harsh breath, "It's my father. He's," the dark haired man paused for a second as if finding it hard to swallow, "had a stroke."
Oh. God.
A/N: Imagine this:
You're twenty-three, last year for college. As far as you know you're immortal and life couldn't be better. You have these four best friends. You do everything with them; eat, hang-out, study, attend classes, even…pray. You're each others' motivation.
At heart, you're good kids; no drugs, no drinking, no sleeping-around, and God-fearing.
You tell your buddy to wake you up when two of your friends are head to the airport to catch a flight for Christmas. You and your other two friends are going to drop them off.
Your friends take pity on you, you're just sleeping off from another hard day of exams…and don't wake you up…
…not knowing that that just saved your life.
You get a call in the morning; your four friends were in a car accident. The car had whirled, kept spinning, and crashed into a tree.
Two of your friends are dead.
The other two friends, one's in a coma, and one who was the genius amongst you, just barely hanging on to life-support—brain dead.
You ask me what was the point of this? This wasn't me. It was the next worse thing. My brother's. They were his friends and in a flash, he's lost basically all of them. The doctors have little hope for the two. The thing is this: It's Christmas, and you might drink too much…but don't drive when you're drunk. They weren't drinking but there is no actual cause determined yet. Their parents are beyond devastated. My brother is beyond devastated. He's had to face all those grieving parents (since he's thousands of miles away from us). He was supposed to come home tonight. But what is he doing? Attending funerals.
Motto: Live each day as if you were going to die; never do anything that you might regret, merely a second later. …oh yeah, appreciate your friends.
As for my insecurities, must say I think it was like letter sent to Heaven. Approximately five minutes after I posted the chapter, my mom called me up and we had a long chat…an hour and a half?..about my insecurities etc. So, now, it's all good.
Btw, next chapter might take a lil' time to get posted up…give it four or so days. :P
Much, much, muuuch thanks to all the reviewers!!!