Chapter 3:
A/N: Okay, so this is looking to be long and rather involved. Work makes writing time rather short, so you'll have to bear with me as far as updates go. Glad you like it so far.
Disclaimer: I own none but those I make up myself.
Veins stood bulging out on Jay's neck as he pushed the store door open with one foot. He flipped the lights on with some difficulty and made for the back room. By the time he set the girl down on the cot his face was red and strained, and sweat marred his brow. She groaned as he set her down, but did not wake.
Seeing the state of her face under lights, he couldn't help but wonder as to the rest of her, Her right eye was nearly closed over by swelling, and dark, dried blood stained the back of her neck and the hood of her light sweatshirt. He peeled the cover from her arms. Her arms resembled her face and her knuckles were split open.
"Fought back," Jay mused, casting aside the wet sweatshirt. "Good for you." Then, though a distinct discomfort gripped him, he rolled up her tank top, revealing her torso. Like the rest of her, her right side looked like it had taken a hellacious beating.
He sat back on a plastic chair, and studied her face. He shook his head, realizing then that mistaking this girl for Erika had been little more than a drunken fool's desperate imagination. He just wasn't sure if that was a relief or a disappointment. They were the same height, and had the same hair, but aside from that little was comparable.
Everything about Erika had had a softness that belied her strength. When she surfed, she'd almost danced with the wave, like she was part of the water. Full lips and huge, dark, round eyes had given such life to her face. This girl was leaner, harder. Her jaw was more square than Erika's had been, her complexion not as dark. His chest tightened when he thought of her, so he went for supplies.
The store had become something of a second home to Jay. Along with the cot, the back room housed a small refrigerator and a half empty box of Ramen Noodle packages lay next to it on the floor. He returned from rooting around a few moments later, carrying a water filled bowl and two small towels. He was surprised when his return was greeted by a set of suspicious steel gray eyes staring him down. He sat on his chair. She responded by edging away from him, drawing in her legs.
"She lives," he said quietly. "That's something I suppose." He set the basin down slowly, leaving one towel hanging over the rim. Then he moved to the fridge, generally stocked with soda and the like, the freezer with ice. It was the latter he intended to garner. Tourists bought bags of it out front, and he always kept himself in good supply. He piled cubes into the second rag and turned back. She was still watching him, her entire body tense. "She lives, but does she speak?" No reply. "Here," he held out the towel, "for where it hurts."
She leaned forward, slowly. Her eyes never left his face as she snatched the towel from his grasp like he might bite. She placed it gingerly on her swollen cheek. Her tongue licked cracked lips. "What if it hurts everywhere?" She finally asked, her voice raspy and hoarse.
"No worries," the corner of his mouth quirked, "I've got plenty of ice." He went back to the fridge and pulled out a can of soda. "Drink?" he held up the offering. Her gaze looked him up and down carefully, guardedly. Jay didn't move. Finally she nodded, uncurling her legs and sitting off the edge of the cot. The Australian sat across from her on his chair and gave her the can.
She lifted the drink up toward her lips, but it never got there. As she raised her elbow a look of pain swept her features and her hand dropped. Her left hand clutched her side. She closed her eyes and blew out a slow breath of air. She swallowed hard and gave a weak attempt at a laugh. "Maybe I should try that with the other hand."
"More like maybe I should take you over to Playa Linda Memorial Hospital."
Her eyes flew open. "No!" she cried desperately. "No hospitals."
Jay was taken aback by the ferocity of her response. "Your ribs may be broken," he argued.
"And they may not. No hospitals."
The surfer sensed the issue was not one he should press, certainly not with someone who looked like she was two seconds away from trying their hand at the 100 yard dash. he wondered suddenly what mess he'd gotten involved in. Messy marital situation? Drug deal gone bad? A hundred possibilities flew through his mind.
"Okay," he nodded. "Well, let's get you cleaned up anyway. The sand, don't want you getting an infection." He reached down and lifted the rag from the basin, squeezing it out.
Jay nodded towards her hands. With only a moment's hesitation, she held out her right hand. He dabbed the broken skin, trying to focus on anything other than the fact that the sight and smell of blood was making him nauseous. Her voice breaking the stillness came as a welcome distraction. "Besides," gray eyes flicked over his face, "I make it a point not to ride in cars with men who small like Jack Daniels."
Jay flushed, half annoyed, half embarrassed. He changed the subject. "If not the hospital, what about the police? You're pretty beat up, took yourself a mighty good wallop."
She yanked her hand away, the hunted look flooding back into her gaze. "I...I don't, no. No cops. No hospitals."
"But........."
"I said no! I just.........I can't. Look, my head feels like it just got run over by a very big, very fast truck. What exactly happened anyway?"
Jay's brow furrowed as he shot her a sideways glance. "I found you like this, washed up on shore about half a mile down the beach. Before that, you tell me."
She shrank before him, clutching with bone white fingers the cloth beneath her hands. "You mean you don't know?" Her voice was very small.
"Should I?" Jay asked, surprised. "Shouldn't you?"
The girl tentatively touched the back of her head and winced. "You'd think so." Her voice trailed off. Her head throbbed more fiercely the harder she tried to remember. "But I don't. All I know is I wake up in a surf shop with my very own white knight whose name I don't even know."
Jay held out a hand, which she took. "Jay Robertson. And you are?"
"I'm........." The staccato drum beating in her head rose to a dull roar. Her mind was veiled. Her heart hammered as panic gripped her. "I don't remember."
Blue eyes shot wide and his mouth dropped open. "Oh boy, this could be complicated."
--
Slender tendrils of smoke drifted upward, spreading across the ceiling. A man paced behind a leather couch, one hand cradling his Cuban cigar, the other cracking bare knuckles behind his back. His features, long and hawk-like were solemn, but dark eyes burned angrily. "You lost her?" The words were quiet, coming between puffs, but the two men towards whom they were directed shifted uneasily.
"yes, Mr. Dante, sir." Dante never looked at the men, just paced. His expensive Italian loafers threatened to wear a track in the rug. His men exchanged nervous looks.
Dante passed a hand over his temple. "And tell me," he said as he put out the burning end of his cigar, "exactly how did she get away from you two pillars of intellect?"
"We did what you said Mr. Dante," the shorter of the two stammered nervously. "We were pretendin like we were driving her home, like always. But instead, Mike drives up to the bluff. I didn't really think she'd fight back," he explained, lifting his hand to swollen, broken lip. "She tried runnin, and Mike got her with the tire iron. So we took her to the boat."
The taller man, Mike, went on. "We were planning on dropping the body with the spare anchor a couple miles out. She was out, you know, on the floor and I guess we weren't paying enough attention. Round by the pier we hear a splash and she's just gone. We went back, but we couldn't find her. Mr. Dante, she's probably dead, drowned or busted up on the pilings or something. She was too messed up to make in to shore."
Dante was nodding. "Probably dead. Probably? Fuck probably! I sent you out to do a job and I want it finished. Find her. If she's dead, fine. If she's not.........finish it."
--
Jay left the girl on the cot, eyes half closed. It had taken him more than fifteen minutes to calm her down after her realization. Not that he could blame her really. Waking up and not knowing who you were......... Well, he conceded to himself, it wasn't an appealing proposition to most people anyway.
Still, pros and cons aside, he still didn't know what to do for her. She still blatantly refused to go to the police, and she had no ID on her, not even a wallet. Hay hovered near the door to his storeroom. There was no rustle or sheets, no uneasy murmurings. Only quiet, even breathing met his ears. His gaze drifted between the doorway and the phone that sat atop the counter. He chewed the inside of his lower lip.
Running a hand through unruly blonde locks, he walked over to the counter. And there he stood, drumming his fingers on the glass, still undecided. Finally, with a heavyhearted sigh, he took the receiver from its cradle. Beat up and scared was one thing, that much he could handle. But amnesia? The girl needed help whether she wanted it or not.
He held the phone between his shoulder and his ear, reaching for a pad and pen. He dialed the operator. "Yeah, can I get the number for Playa Linda Memorial please? Emergency room I guess. Uh huh.........yeah thanks, go ahead and connect me." The phone began to ring. A board in the floor creaked behind him.
"I said no hospital."
Jay whirled, only to meet the oncoming end of something hard and heavy. His head snapped back and his knees buckled. He hit the floor. The room felt like it was spinning and his vision blurred. He was vaguely aware of someone moving over him, before a black sheet passed over his eyes and he felt nothing.
Chapter 2
Hehe, hope you like it so far. Bradin comes back in next chapter, promise, and some of the others too. Please read and review.
A/N: Okay, so this is looking to be long and rather involved. Work makes writing time rather short, so you'll have to bear with me as far as updates go. Glad you like it so far.
Disclaimer: I own none but those I make up myself.
Veins stood bulging out on Jay's neck as he pushed the store door open with one foot. He flipped the lights on with some difficulty and made for the back room. By the time he set the girl down on the cot his face was red and strained, and sweat marred his brow. She groaned as he set her down, but did not wake.
Seeing the state of her face under lights, he couldn't help but wonder as to the rest of her, Her right eye was nearly closed over by swelling, and dark, dried blood stained the back of her neck and the hood of her light sweatshirt. He peeled the cover from her arms. Her arms resembled her face and her knuckles were split open.
"Fought back," Jay mused, casting aside the wet sweatshirt. "Good for you." Then, though a distinct discomfort gripped him, he rolled up her tank top, revealing her torso. Like the rest of her, her right side looked like it had taken a hellacious beating.
He sat back on a plastic chair, and studied her face. He shook his head, realizing then that mistaking this girl for Erika had been little more than a drunken fool's desperate imagination. He just wasn't sure if that was a relief or a disappointment. They were the same height, and had the same hair, but aside from that little was comparable.
Everything about Erika had had a softness that belied her strength. When she surfed, she'd almost danced with the wave, like she was part of the water. Full lips and huge, dark, round eyes had given such life to her face. This girl was leaner, harder. Her jaw was more square than Erika's had been, her complexion not as dark. His chest tightened when he thought of her, so he went for supplies.
The store had become something of a second home to Jay. Along with the cot, the back room housed a small refrigerator and a half empty box of Ramen Noodle packages lay next to it on the floor. He returned from rooting around a few moments later, carrying a water filled bowl and two small towels. He was surprised when his return was greeted by a set of suspicious steel gray eyes staring him down. He sat on his chair. She responded by edging away from him, drawing in her legs.
"She lives," he said quietly. "That's something I suppose." He set the basin down slowly, leaving one towel hanging over the rim. Then he moved to the fridge, generally stocked with soda and the like, the freezer with ice. It was the latter he intended to garner. Tourists bought bags of it out front, and he always kept himself in good supply. He piled cubes into the second rag and turned back. She was still watching him, her entire body tense. "She lives, but does she speak?" No reply. "Here," he held out the towel, "for where it hurts."
She leaned forward, slowly. Her eyes never left his face as she snatched the towel from his grasp like he might bite. She placed it gingerly on her swollen cheek. Her tongue licked cracked lips. "What if it hurts everywhere?" She finally asked, her voice raspy and hoarse.
"No worries," the corner of his mouth quirked, "I've got plenty of ice." He went back to the fridge and pulled out a can of soda. "Drink?" he held up the offering. Her gaze looked him up and down carefully, guardedly. Jay didn't move. Finally she nodded, uncurling her legs and sitting off the edge of the cot. The Australian sat across from her on his chair and gave her the can.
She lifted the drink up toward her lips, but it never got there. As she raised her elbow a look of pain swept her features and her hand dropped. Her left hand clutched her side. She closed her eyes and blew out a slow breath of air. She swallowed hard and gave a weak attempt at a laugh. "Maybe I should try that with the other hand."
"More like maybe I should take you over to Playa Linda Memorial Hospital."
Her eyes flew open. "No!" she cried desperately. "No hospitals."
Jay was taken aback by the ferocity of her response. "Your ribs may be broken," he argued.
"And they may not. No hospitals."
The surfer sensed the issue was not one he should press, certainly not with someone who looked like she was two seconds away from trying their hand at the 100 yard dash. he wondered suddenly what mess he'd gotten involved in. Messy marital situation? Drug deal gone bad? A hundred possibilities flew through his mind.
"Okay," he nodded. "Well, let's get you cleaned up anyway. The sand, don't want you getting an infection." He reached down and lifted the rag from the basin, squeezing it out.
Jay nodded towards her hands. With only a moment's hesitation, she held out her right hand. He dabbed the broken skin, trying to focus on anything other than the fact that the sight and smell of blood was making him nauseous. Her voice breaking the stillness came as a welcome distraction. "Besides," gray eyes flicked over his face, "I make it a point not to ride in cars with men who small like Jack Daniels."
Jay flushed, half annoyed, half embarrassed. He changed the subject. "If not the hospital, what about the police? You're pretty beat up, took yourself a mighty good wallop."
She yanked her hand away, the hunted look flooding back into her gaze. "I...I don't, no. No cops. No hospitals."
"But........."
"I said no! I just.........I can't. Look, my head feels like it just got run over by a very big, very fast truck. What exactly happened anyway?"
Jay's brow furrowed as he shot her a sideways glance. "I found you like this, washed up on shore about half a mile down the beach. Before that, you tell me."
She shrank before him, clutching with bone white fingers the cloth beneath her hands. "You mean you don't know?" Her voice was very small.
"Should I?" Jay asked, surprised. "Shouldn't you?"
The girl tentatively touched the back of her head and winced. "You'd think so." Her voice trailed off. Her head throbbed more fiercely the harder she tried to remember. "But I don't. All I know is I wake up in a surf shop with my very own white knight whose name I don't even know."
Jay held out a hand, which she took. "Jay Robertson. And you are?"
"I'm........." The staccato drum beating in her head rose to a dull roar. Her mind was veiled. Her heart hammered as panic gripped her. "I don't remember."
Blue eyes shot wide and his mouth dropped open. "Oh boy, this could be complicated."
--
Slender tendrils of smoke drifted upward, spreading across the ceiling. A man paced behind a leather couch, one hand cradling his Cuban cigar, the other cracking bare knuckles behind his back. His features, long and hawk-like were solemn, but dark eyes burned angrily. "You lost her?" The words were quiet, coming between puffs, but the two men towards whom they were directed shifted uneasily.
"yes, Mr. Dante, sir." Dante never looked at the men, just paced. His expensive Italian loafers threatened to wear a track in the rug. His men exchanged nervous looks.
Dante passed a hand over his temple. "And tell me," he said as he put out the burning end of his cigar, "exactly how did she get away from you two pillars of intellect?"
"We did what you said Mr. Dante," the shorter of the two stammered nervously. "We were pretendin like we were driving her home, like always. But instead, Mike drives up to the bluff. I didn't really think she'd fight back," he explained, lifting his hand to swollen, broken lip. "She tried runnin, and Mike got her with the tire iron. So we took her to the boat."
The taller man, Mike, went on. "We were planning on dropping the body with the spare anchor a couple miles out. She was out, you know, on the floor and I guess we weren't paying enough attention. Round by the pier we hear a splash and she's just gone. We went back, but we couldn't find her. Mr. Dante, she's probably dead, drowned or busted up on the pilings or something. She was too messed up to make in to shore."
Dante was nodding. "Probably dead. Probably? Fuck probably! I sent you out to do a job and I want it finished. Find her. If she's dead, fine. If she's not.........finish it."
--
Jay left the girl on the cot, eyes half closed. It had taken him more than fifteen minutes to calm her down after her realization. Not that he could blame her really. Waking up and not knowing who you were......... Well, he conceded to himself, it wasn't an appealing proposition to most people anyway.
Still, pros and cons aside, he still didn't know what to do for her. She still blatantly refused to go to the police, and she had no ID on her, not even a wallet. Hay hovered near the door to his storeroom. There was no rustle or sheets, no uneasy murmurings. Only quiet, even breathing met his ears. His gaze drifted between the doorway and the phone that sat atop the counter. He chewed the inside of his lower lip.
Running a hand through unruly blonde locks, he walked over to the counter. And there he stood, drumming his fingers on the glass, still undecided. Finally, with a heavyhearted sigh, he took the receiver from its cradle. Beat up and scared was one thing, that much he could handle. But amnesia? The girl needed help whether she wanted it or not.
He held the phone between his shoulder and his ear, reaching for a pad and pen. He dialed the operator. "Yeah, can I get the number for Playa Linda Memorial please? Emergency room I guess. Uh huh.........yeah thanks, go ahead and connect me." The phone began to ring. A board in the floor creaked behind him.
"I said no hospital."
Jay whirled, only to meet the oncoming end of something hard and heavy. His head snapped back and his knees buckled. He hit the floor. The room felt like it was spinning and his vision blurred. He was vaguely aware of someone moving over him, before a black sheet passed over his eyes and he felt nothing.
Chapter 2
Hehe, hope you like it so far. Bradin comes back in next chapter, promise, and some of the others too. Please read and review.