Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
By
E. S. Young
Chapter Fourty-Two: A Nonmedical Therapist
This is so messed up. Recently, I posted links to this story and Home on another website. After that, I put the first chapter of Autobio up as well. No one responded to the links, and if they did, they didn't leave a comment. But the craziest thing of all had to be the feedback I got for Autobio. Only two people reviewed and neither of them had anything positive to say. Well . . . that's not true. They said that I knew what I was doing and that I could write, but Sands was just incredibly out of character and that the autobio didn't seem to fit him at all, nor did it make sense. However, I am not upset by this. Just surprised and a little amused, if you can believe it. Cuz didn't I ask if it was wrong when you guys commented on how in character Sands was in Autobio? Had I posted that story on the other site before I posted it here, I may have felt differently, but now I think it's rather funny that those people thought Sands wasn't being himself. :D Just thought I'd let everyone in on that. Arrivederci!
Catherine smiled to herself as she set down her mimosa. Normally, she never drank but this was a special occasion. She had successfully hoodwinked Lynné. That was not an easy task. It required time, effort, and thinking. A sharp intellect was needed to screw over Lynné Sands, a sharp intellect that Catherine had. But her mentality was nothing when she didn't have any contacts. Her stepsister was the one with associates in high places, not her, which was a fact that had always irritated Cat. Lynné hated everyone – Everyone but herself – yet she had more affiliates than she knew what to do with. But she always found a use for them, Cat remembered bitterly, just like she always found a use for the twenty-some cell phones she had purchased.
The tangy flavor of her drink bubbled in her mouth as she took another swig. The champagne made her nose itch and the added orange juice had a sharp, fiery taste to it, but the two drinks together clashed wonderfully in her mouth.
She knew that she shouldn't be surprised that she had fooled her stepsister. She had done it once before. And for three years she had been living on easy street, leisurely blowing through life like a cool summer's breeze because she thought Lynné dead. Until the little bitch rose from the grave a year ago. Since then, Cat had been determined to bring her stepsister down. But what about dear Sheldon, she remembered. Señorita Barillo was demanding his head along with Lynné's. Could she, Catherine really just stand by and watch that happen?
Cat grinned. Yes. Then I'll finally be finishing what I startedinMexico.
In an uneasy haze, Sands tossed himself onto the living room couch. He gazed skyward, letting one hand lay across his chest and the other trail along the side of the cream colored sofa. Vaguely, he wondered who had painted the ceiling white and why they had chosen such a bland color in the first place. White was so . . . boring. He was tired white especially when it was the color of a ceiling. There had been too many white ceilings lately.
But that's beside the point, he told himself.
Sighing, he massaged his eyes, uncertain if it was out of frustration or exhaustion.
God, Lyn, you dumb bitch – why did you have to go and get yourself kidnapped?
"It's a trap," he heard Zebbidy say.
Not even bothering to look at her, he replied, "No shit. Poisson wants me to go in and rescue Lynné so they can snare my ass along with hers. That's why he let Fusco go. He wanted Fusco to sniff us out to tell me that Poisson's got Lyn, knowing full-well that I would go after her."
There was the creak of springs and he felt the couch sag slightly with added weight as Zebbidy sat down.
"So you are going to rescue her."
"Yes, Zeb," he sighed tiredly, closing his eyes, "I'm going to rescue her."
"You don't sound very enthusiastic about it."
"Well . . . after being shot once, going blind, then being shot two more times, then having a dead slut coming back to haunt you . . . you tend to be . . . worn out."
"I can understand that," she said, trying to keep the humor out of her tone.
Sands raised his head, gazing at her questioningly. "Are you mocking me?"
"No." She shook her head sincerely, but Sands could tell she was hiding a smile. He rolled his eyes, intent on going back to his brooding, but Zebbidy's curiosity prevented that.
"Where did you get this?" she asked.
He glanced up. There was a long, fragile-looking finger pointing innocently at a rough, shiny line of skin that ran along the left side of his abdomen. A scar. Shit. He toyed with the idea of telling her about its origin. The thought was oddly tempting. He'd already spilt his guts twice, after all. He was practically on a roll. Why stop now?
Best to quit while you're ahead, the voice reminded him pointedly.
He ignored it. The voice made no sense anymore – not that it had been very clear to begin with. Its words were complex and deceitful at the same time. A labyrinth of twisted riddles with insults entangled in the mess.
Fuck it, he figured malevolently. Fuck the voice. It didn't know what it was saying. And even if it did, that did not give him the incentive to obey its commands. Listen to it, yes. He couldn't help listening to it – it never shut up – but he didn't have to take its inane advice. It was the fucking voice in his head! Who in their right mind would yield to a voice?
But you're not in your right mind.
Conjuring up an image of himself, Sands mentally held up his middle finger to the voice and left it at that.
"God . . ." He hung his head, shaking it in disappointment, and let out a humorless laugh. "And I thought I'd seen you at your worst."
From her chair Lynné gave him a thin smile that lacked the energy she so desired. Truth was, she was tired. Physically and mentally exhausted. Her head throbbed, Gaston's blows to her face left her eyes burning, her brain was currently riding a tilt-a-whirl, and there was freezing cold plank glued to her back.
Fucking chair.
And now lover boy was back. Could she really call him that, even sarcastically? No, she decided. 'Lover boy' was reserved for those who were truly head-over-heels for someone. A person deeply, passionately devoted for all eternity – that was a lover.
He was none of those things.
He had twisted her emotions, toyed with her feelings like the manipulative puppet master that he was. He had kissed her, caressed her, done things with her that even she had never imagined. He had loved her. Until the Barillo cartel caught up with her. And what if they had never found her? Would he have stayed? No. He would have been with her up until the moment a new job offer came up. Or until another hot little number walked by. Whichever came first.
He couldn't even kill her. Her! Everybody wanted to kill her! Every single soul she had come into contact with, at least once in their miserable lives, they all had entertained thoughts of murdering her. How sweet. Lynné took comfort in the fact that she could take each and every one of them out if she wanted to.
"What happened to your leg?" he now wanted to know. "Or . . . lack thereof."
"I'd flip you off if my hands weren't preoccupied at the moment," was her response. Lyn sighed with a pointed glance in his direction. "What're you doing here?"
He shrugged, thoroughly enjoying the sight before him. Lynné Sands: Weak, venerable, helpless. What a laugh! Hardee-fucking-har. Bite me, dick-face, I'm in no mood.
"Does this mean you want me?" she asked flirtatiously. It was highly unlikely, but if he did, he wasn't going to get her.
He bent down, his face mere inches away from hers, parts of his gray hair turning silver, reflected in the light of the lone bulb that hovered between them just above their heads. An ironic parody of mistletoe.
"It means I made it out of Mexico alive," he murmured, his tone very low. "Which is more than I can say for you."
"Why's that?" Lynné inquired curiously. "I feel very much alive."
He snorted, making a disdainful gesture to her pitifully mangled body. "If you can call this living."
"Don't know what else you'd call it," Lynné responded, her lips twisting into a smirk.
"I do: pathetic. It sums you up, Lynné, or," he considered reasonably, "what you've become. A person so desperate for something that they learn to trust just so they can get their hands on it. That's you, all right. You listened to that neurotic partner of yours and for what? Sex? Sex, Lynné?"
The words were harsh, intended to belittle and humiliate. Knife in the heart, Lyn thought with mock-passion. She withstood each degrading comment, refusing to be ashamed. There was no reason to be; none of them were true. She hadn't trusted Liam – not entirely – and it was not as if she had told him any "big secrets" that might have aided in her capture. The little prick had betrayed her, simple as that. And he had probably been planning on it all along, only he had waited until now to reveal his true colors.
"I'm going to let you in on something," Lynnébegan slowly, "but only because I like you." After a wink, she leaned forward and whispered conspicuously, "The only reason I trusted you was because I was desperate for sex."
It wasn't true, but he didn't need to know that. The furious look on his face was enough to make Lyn forget the devastating position she was in, enough to make her forget that he could kill her right then and there. But only for a moment. She soon recovered her memory and smirked up at him as he ground his teeth in frustration.
"Now, now," she scolded calmly. "Anger will get you no where. So what are you doing here? Given up the hitman biz at last?"
His hands were on both arms of the chair in a matter of seconds. Fiercely blazing eyes blocked her line of vision, boring into her skull as he leaned in towards her.
"You know you're trapped," he breathed matter-of-factly. "Stuck to this goddamn chair with no means of escape and no one who's willing to help you. And even if you weren't tied up, you couldn't go anywhere. Not like that." While his eyes moved to the space that should have been taken up by her leg, Lynné kept her sights on his face.
"You ass . . ." she said with a light laugh. Then, quite confidently, she stated, "I'm going to kill you."
"Really," he remarked, pulling away with a skeptical look. "And how do you intend to do that?"
Lynné let a long breath escape her pursed lips as she tilted her head backwards. "You know my handcuffs?" she sighed tiredly, sounding bored. She pictured a nod, then, slowly, out came her right hand, quickly followed by her left. Satisfied, she eased her head up to give him a broad smile.
"Picked 'em."
There wasn't a second to spare. He was shocked, but, from what she remembered, he had always been quick to recover. Lynné lunged forward, arms outstretched. Her fingers clawed, itching, wanting desperately to beat him within an inch of his life. But when she was only a foot away from him – Lynné gasped, she felt her eyes widen. He was gone. Her fists connected with nothing but air.
"The doctors dubbed it appendicitis and were all set to cut me open – they were more than eager to – but my mom had other ideas. She thought it was something else."
"It was," Zebbidy murmured, breathless with awe.
Sands nodded distantly. "She goaded them out of surgery, saying that they should at least run an x-ray and that it wouldn't be proper medical procedure if they didn't."
"Not that it mattered in those days," Zebbidy muttered scornfully. Sands silently agreed with her.
"They gave in and went through with the scans. Surprise, surprise: My appendix was fine. In perfect, fully-functioning condition, actually."
"So what was wrong?"
He glanced at her before explaining, "Incredibly – they're still unsure how – a bottlecap managed to find itself inside my body and get caught in my digestive track." Ignoring Zebbidy's mortified expression, he continued, "Since I was only about six at the time, the only thing they could do was remove it surgically."
He watched as the young woman attempted to hide her gaping mouth with her hand.
"Personally, I always thought this snot-nosed creep I went to school with was the dirty culprit," he told her. "He might've slipped it into my sandwich or something during lunch hour. All I know is that, despite how naïve kids can be, I think I'd know better than to eat a bottlecap."
"I imagine you would, too," Zebbidy said quietly.
Sands said nothing but leaned his head back against the arm of the couch. Appearing utterly relaxed, he crossed his arms over his chest. As if the leisurely position wasn't enough, Sands closed his eyes, almost as if he intended to doze until Liam returned. Dumbfounded, Zebbidy stared down at the laidback figure before her, feeling her eyes widen in disbelief. There was silence between the two of them. Not uncomfortable silence, simply the kind that occurred when one was deep in thought. Or, in Zebbidy's case, when one was at a loss for words.
"Aren't you going to tell me something, now?" Sands asked, his tone as unruffled as his composure. He raised his head slightly. "That was the deal, right? I make a confession, you fire one back at me . . . 'round and 'round we go. That's how the game is done."
"I wasn't aware we were still playing," Zebbidy said airily.
He shrugged offhandedly. "If I recall correctly, we were pretty much even right up until you got me talking about Mexico. You got a lot more out of me than I originally intended, Zeb." His voice grew icy. "Other than Lynné, I hadn't planned on letting anyone in on that information."
Zebbidy felt herself stiffen. A sickening feeling was rising inside of her as an appalling thought entered her mind . . . but no . . . she was being ridiculous. Surely he wasn't going to kill her . . . ?
"Which means," Sands drawled, pulling himself into a sitting position, "you are in serious debt, young lady. So you need to give me a kick-ass confession of your own because without that, things don't balance out so well. I don't know if I've ever explained my obsession with equality, but I'm sure you catch my drift." He gave her a quick smile. "Spill, honey bunch."
Through violently fluttering eyelashes, Zebbidy stared back at him, struggling to dig up a story that was as gripping as his own. Two thoughts entered her mind and neither was very appealing. But they were all she had. But which one do I go with? she cried in desperation. The one that won't get me killed, she decided flatly.
"I know why Poisson's after me." Seeing Sands' questioning look, she quickly added, "Not for certain. It's just a suspicion." Her nose scrunched uncontrollably, but she didn't notice.
"Care to enlighten me?" Sands asked, raising a brow in skepticism.
"Well . . ." she began carefully, "Poisson . . . knows something about me and I think he wants to use it to his advantage. But it's impossible because it doesn't work on command – it just . . . happens." She looked up at him hopelessly.
"Okay," he said slowly. "What would this 'it' be, exactly?"
Zebbidy seemed startled, as if she hadn't realized that she had forgotten a crucial part to her tale. Suddenly, she stood up. Without a word she walked robotically to the connected kitchen and began sorting through the assorted items that were lined up on the counter. Toaster, microwave, coffee maker . . . each belonged there. Unlike her herbs, which had been scattered about the counter top in her haste to dull Sands' pain in time.
Sands . . . he was still awaiting her answer. How could she explain something like . . . Zebbidy sighed, running her hand along the pearly white edge of the counter. She bit her lip and looked up. Seeing Sands' expectant face, his eyes wide with interest and a hint of disbelief, Zebbidy made up her mind. To hell with it. She would tell him, and if he didn't believe her, then she would simply show him.
"Okay, hot shot," she said, casually leaning her slim form against the cool kitchen wall. "You want a kick-ass story, you got one." Her green eyes sparkled devilishly, staring directly into Sands' dark orbs. "I See things."
She would have expected him to say "Doesn't everyone?" but after four days of darkness, Zebbidy knew she should have known better when Sands said, "Like what? Dead people, pink elephants . . ."
London, France . . . underpants? the voice snickered.
"Images," Zebbidy explained. "Visions is a better word. I don't know how else to put it . . . You know those fits you've seen me go into? Seizures, you called them. Well, whenever that happened, I was having a vision."
"And what do you . . . see . . . when these things occur?"
"It depends," Zebbidy sighed exasperatedly. "Something usually triggers it – I never know what, exactly – and the next thing I know I'm spiraling into someone's future or the past . . . and I'll See something.
"Then I can read people's thoughts," she continued, beginning to feel drained. By now Sands was walking toward her, as confused as ever and most likely wondering about her mental health.
"But not all the time. Usually, that only happens when someone is feeling particularly emotional. I don't think I've ever gotten anything clear out of you," Zebbidy informed him. "I've only been able to look into your mind about two times, and even then the thoughts were scattered."
Sands was staring at her, looking completely dumbfounded; it was even possible he was wary of her. Nervousness was rising inside of her, coursing through her veins, spreading like wild fire but Zebbidy hurried on in a feeble attempt to douse the flames of panic.
"In . . . a sense," she began delicately, not wanting him to get the wrong impression, "I'm a . . ." It was no use. Her voice broke and faded. Zebbidy looked into Sands' eyes – eyes she had brought sight to when it seemed impossible. For a moment she wondered what she owed him. Nothing. If anything, he owed her. But Zebbidy knew that didn't matter to her. Helping someone and expecting nothing in return was one of the main rules when it came to healing. She had to remember that. Taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders, Zebbidy gazed up at Sands, her face an impassive mask, and coolly stated, "I'm an alternative practitioner."
He stared back at her dumbly, not getting it.
"An obeah doctor," Zebbidy offered, taking another shot. Sands still had nothing to say. Rolling her eyes, Zebbidy shook her head before suddenly blurting out, "A shaman, a wangateur, an isangoma! Sands," she sighed exasperatedly, "I'm a witch."
The words must have had some type of effect on him, but if they did, Sands never showed it. Everything about him remained the same. His body language, his facial expression . . . nothing changed. He continued to stare at her through emotionless eyes while she gazed back at him, ready to fall limp with fatigue. If Sands didn't say something soon she thought she would collapse. Then, quietly, carefully, the agent's lips parted.
"I thought . . . you were practicing to be a doctor."
Flooded with relief that extinguished her querulous fire, Zebbidy sighed, feeling a smile pulling at her lips.
"No," she corrected, shaking her head. "Well . . . technically, yes. But by doctor I meant nonmedical therapist, although I prefer the term healer if it's all the same to you."
"You said you were a witch."
"True, I do like to indulge in the religion from time to time –"
"Religion?"
"Wicca."
"Oh."
"But I wouldn't go as far to say I'm a witch. As proud as I am of my heritage, calling me witch in public might not be the best of ideas. Which brings us to Poisson."
"Poisson," Sands echoed, skepticism prominent in his voice.
"He knows I'm . . . psychic, I guess you could say, and my theory is that he wants to bend my abilities to his own will. He wants me to predict things for him – assassination attempts, his downfall, if his affiliates are trustworthy or not . . . But he needs to understand that it doesn't work like that. I have no control over my abilities and he doesn't understand that. I cannot conjure up images in my head. They come when they want to."
"How does Poisson know this?" Sands demanded quietly.
"He knew my family," Zebbidy answered, sounding surprised. "You knew that. Or at least your agency did. He knew me when I was a child and he knew what I was capable of. You know that my family – specifically my father – was in Poisson's inner circle. So naturally, Poisson knew me as a kid and so he knew what I was capable of."
"And by 'capable of' you mean 'seeing' . . ." Sands held out his hands and shrugged. This made no sense, but then again, neither did losing your eyes, getting them back, and then losing your sight all over again. "So, what are you? One of those . . . psychic detectives or telepathic phone operators?"
She rolled her eyes. "Spare me. Not that I'm bragging, but I'm a lot better than those phonies. Believe me."
Now you know the deal behind Zebbidy's freaky psychic abilities. Understand that she's not a witch per se, although her original character, the first Zebbidy was much stronger in her telekinetic abilities than the Zebbidy in this story is. But since I do not write sci-fi stories and didn't want this one to turn into one, I had to tone her down a bit and turn her into a "wangateur." ;D
Author's Thanks and Review Responses:
Invader Nicole: Sands as Richard Simmons seems to be one of those things that's both very amusing and very creepy at the same time. And Sands is gonna kill himself if he keeps smoking, same thing goes for Jigen u.u But it's their bodies they're ruining, not mine, so it's fine with me. u.u
Dawnie-7: I've had that image of Lynné in my head for a good while now. This story has gotten so long, I was beginning to wonder if I'd forget that scene before I got it written up 9.6 Thankfully, I finally got it out. Glad you liked it :D
vanillafluffy: Yes, Lynné's got a warped idea of reverse psychology. Warped, but effective! Plus at some point in the story, I wanted her to notice that she's masochistic. u.u
fanfiction fanatic: Don't feel bad. I do the same thing with the ceiling fan.
morph: Unfortunately, Sands couldn't tell. He knows it's a trap, but he doesn't know that Liam's involved :( I'm glad somebody mentioned the Beauty and the Beast line, partially because I, as usual, forgot to at the end of the chapter 9.9 Yeah, Lyn being a sadomasochist . . . It just made sense to me :D
Lynx Ryder: I'm having extreme regrets about having Liam lie to Sands. He should know better than to do that and after what Ajedrez did to him, Sands' trust in people is beyond thin. But he had to betray him in order for the story to continue. What really got to me was the fact that neither Sands nor Zeb noticed he was lying. They think something's up, but they're unaware that Liam's in on the act :( They'll find out, though, sooner or later. 'Only Lyn.' Yep, that pretty much sums it up :D I'm not gonna say that it isn't creepy that Lyn likes pain, but I've got a scene planned that I just can't resist. It involves her being a sadist… I won't get into it; might wind up giving something away :D; And I'll have to find some way to shield Liam from you. Can't have him getting his ass kicked just yet ;)
Hope everyone had a wonderful New Year!!!
o