Disclaimer: You know the drill: poor college student, don't own anything, not making any money off of this. It's sad, I know.
A/N: The list of wonderful, supportive reviewers of this story is so long now that I don't know what to say aside from thank you so much! If not for y'all, I wouldn't be writing this fast. It's a great experience, and a little terrifying. (Much like NaNoWriMo.)
There's an apt little epigraph for this chapter, but overall, this is a bit darker. Yes, Jackson has some baggage, but Lisa has that much more, and I felt a need to explore some of that. Don't worry – the next chapter should introduce some semblance of an overarching plot as well as more interaction between our two favorite characters. Poor Jackson was just really, really tired and had to go get some sleep during this chapter.
"Will you walk into my parlor?" said the Spider to the Fly.
Everything hurt – her throat, her back, her pride.
Lisa couldn't find it within herself to care at the moment, however, and stared out the window of the car, eyes unfocused, not even seeing the Atlanta skyline outside. They'd arrived in the city about an hour and a half after the disaster at the Exxon. In the back of her mind, she had expected Jackson to keep driving endlessly toward some unfathomable destination – why, she didn't know – so she'd been surprised when he took a downtown exit and headed for this place.
It was an old building, ten stories high, and desperately in need of a fresh coat of paint. They took the stairs to the seventh floor, Jackson insisting that she go first. His directions had become as terse as possible since her attempted escape, and Lisa couldn't read him accurately enough to tell if it was out of anger or design.
The apartment seemed to be an old bolt-hole of Jackson's, populated by a few pieces of well-worn furniture. A heavy mahogany desk in the corner of the living room was the obvious center of all his operations in Atlanta – it was covered in paper, stacked neatly and color-coded with Post-It notes. Jackson's presence permeated the space, and Lisa recognized the phenomenon. She knew all too well what it was like to inhabit a space so frequently, so frenetically, that it became imbued with you.
He tossed the duffel bag that had been in the back seat of his car down onto the couch and watched her with interest. With an expansive gesture, he said, "I hope you like what you see, Lisa, since we'll be staying here for a while." The words, taken at face value, were solicitous, but Lisa knew better. Whatever his purpose was, whatever he had planned for her, he meant to do it here. She looked at him with eyes full of dread as he moved to stand directly in front of her. Jackson was close enough for her to see the lines of exhaustion around his eyes, but not close enough to actually invade her personal space. They simply watched each other for a long moment, she too numb with fear and despair to try to fight him and he too weary to torment her.
"Follow me," he said at last, and led her by the arm into a short corridor off of which were several doors. At the last door on the right, Jackson withdrew a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. Suddenly realizing that this was to be her prison, Lisa tried to back away, but his grip on her elbow tightened and he drew her back. "Now, Lisa," he said, some of the usual mockery back in his voice, "we should both get some rest. We have a busy few days ahead of us." With that, he pushed her across the threshold and closed the door behind her. Lisa immediately pressed her ear against the dark wood and caught the sound of the key turning in the lock.
That was it, then. She twisted until her back was against the door and choked back a sob. She rubbed at her neck; Jackson's chokehold had left her sore and most likely bruised. He hadn't really gone out of his way to hurt her, and she supposed that she should be grateful he hadn't strangled her to death, but he certainly wasn't shy about using force to keep her in line. She could handle physical discomfort relatively well as long as it wasn't crippling – field hockey had toughened her up in college, and managing the Lux Atlantic necessarily involved a lot of headaches and aching feet. It was the psychological torment that gnawed away at her.
Lisa had been happy enough before the attack – the rape, she corrected herself, call it what it was – shattered her carefully constructed world. It had taken her six months to accept the fact and begin to concentrate on recovery – six months of steadfast denial and pushing away friends and family, and then a year of therapy. For the better part of a year, now, she'd been on her own except for her parents and the support group recommended by her therapist. She usally missed those meetings due to her long hours at the hotel, but every once in a while she managed to get off early and swing by. Interacting with people who had had similar experiences was bittersweet; the sense of camaraderie and understanding was invaluable, but Lisa still hated to be reminded of the afternoon that so drastically changed her life.
She loathed the scar that marred the smooth skin of her chest more than anything else, because it did just that on a daily basis. During those long months of denial, Lisa regularly covered up the scar with a thick layer of a foundation specially formulated to conceal such blemishes. It didn't matter that she'd purchased new blouses with necklines that guaranteed that the mark was always hidden - it was enough to just know it was there, and she didn't want to see it at all.
That had changed, however, during therapy. She would never welcome the sight, but Lisa didn't feel compelled to hide the scar from herself anymore. It was still painful to look at the thickened flesh for too long, and always summoned up a host of troublesome emotions running the gamut from anger to shame, but if she tried hard enough, she could sometimes draw a quiet strength out of the turmoil. She had survived. She would survive.
Sitting there against the door, thinking about the ordeal of the past two years and fighting the familiar depression and nausea, brought back a fresher memory – Jackson uncovering the scar in the tiny bathroom on the plane. He'd been strangely respectful, reverent even, upon discovering the evidence of her vulnerability.
"Did someone do this to you?" he asked, curiosity softening his voice. She couldn't talk, couldn't think.
Lisa shook her head. Her mind was playing tricks on her again, altering memories to make them less traumatic. There was no sugar-coating the truth, however: Jackson Rippner was a hated enemy, and one who was trying to ruin her life. She would just have to keep reminding herself of that inescapable fact and clamp down on the emotions running rampant within her. All it would take was one window of opportunity, one moment of weakness, for him to get her off balance and keep her that way.
So her first order of business was to figure out a way to change her circumstances. Lisa picked herself up off the floor, brushed the dust off her slacks, and considered her options. Overtly fighting Jackson was out of the question now – he'd subdued her twice already, and she had the scrapes and bruises to prove it. Based on prior experience, he didn't seem to resort to physical violence unless provoked, so she decided to assume that this time, the danger would be psychological. He liked to play with words, fashion them into barbs, and dispatch them with calculated efficiency. Even more than that, though, he strove to project an image of sophistication and intelligence, as if he'd already planned for every contingency. Sometimes, Lisa admitted to herself, it seemed that he had.
A cursory glance around the room told Lisa that Jackson had already removed any objects that were easily concealed and potentially harmful. For the first time in twelve hours, a small smile curved her lips. "Not too keen on another impromptu tracheotomy, are you?" she said aloud. A more thorough inspection proved fruitless – between the bedroom and the adjoining bathroom, she had a bed, a heavy oak nightstand, a shower curtain with plastic hooks, and a roll of toilet paper. With a sigh, Lisa crossed the room to inspect the window. It would be easy enough to for someone to shatter the glass and use a shard as a weapon, but Lisa shuddered at the thought. "No," she said to herself, as if vocalizing the word would banish the nightmare images of a crumpled body in her dad's foyer and the staccato eruptions of blood on Jackson's shirt. She wished she could forget it all and try to move on with her life, but something always drew her back into this vicious cycle. She'd given into those basest of instincts once before – she couldn't afford to do it again.
There had to be some other way out. She just wasn't seeing it right now.