disclaimers: Am not Wes Craven. Do not own Red Eye. Am lamer obsessive fangirl. Please do not sue me, unless you're willing to take a settlement in lifetime supply of knitting yarn, which is my main asset. :-(
A/N: Thanks to Rashida for the beta read and advice for a final polish.
Rasche set his beer down on the spindly cafe table with a thump. Then he cleared his throat. Loudly.
Jackson Rippner continued to flip the pages of his magazine with the tips of two fingers, not even bothering to look up.
"I made it," Rasche finally said. "Got in an hour ago."
Blue eyes finally flicked up briefly. "Good for you. You're drawing attention to yourself. Sit."
He sat. Sipped at his beer, pretended to ignore the steady ruffling of glossy pages. Cracked within 30 seconds. "That her?" He nodded toward a blonde standing at the bar. Rippner glanced up again without losing the rhythm of his page-turning.
"Next seat over. For Christ's sake don't turn around, Rasche." He strained his neck to look over a burly shoulder. The girl was settled on the tall chair, mid-height heels hooked over the chair bar. The weary curve of her shoulders in and around her drink and the slump of her curly-haired head were at odds with the crisp white blouse and narrow dark skirt she wore. The bartender said something to her and she looked up, brightening a bit as she answered.
"Eenh. Not bad. Could be worse." He grinned. "You made a move on her yet?"
Jackson grimaced. "No." Rasche pulled a comical face, and Jackson sighed. "I'm working."
"Mind if I give her a shot?"
Rippner glanced up at him, a distant look in his eyes, like he was studying a bug on a slide. "Why not?" His tone was unreadable.
Rasche grinned. "Great. We'll be makin' like bunnies in no time." He cocked and pointed an index finger at his boss, and swaggered over to the bar.
Jackson lifted his magazine halfway in front of his face for cover and sat back into the shadows behind him. He watched Rasche wedge his bulk between the blonde and Lisa Reisert. Rasche slapped a hand down on the bar in front of her, spoke; Lisa's head shook from side to side and she curled a bit further defensively inward. Rasche spoke again, and again she shook her head, this time shifting her body on the chair to turn her back to him.
He put the magazine back down on the table and watched Rasche make the long walk back, one corner of his mouth quirked ever so slightly up. "Frigid bitch," Rasche grumbled as he sat. "You knew that was coming, didn't you?"
Jackson nodded. "You wanted her to make like a bunny, right?" He nodded once in the direction of the bar. Lisa had thrown down some bills and snatched up her bag, and was walking hastily toward the door. Rasche groaned. "You spooked her. She doesn't like to draw that kind of attention here. Besides, one's her limit. Always."
"You not runnin' after her?" Jackson shook his head.
"She'll be on her way home. It's only a couple of blocks over, and it's past time for good little hotel managers to be tucked up on the couch with popcorn and the late movie. I'll catch up with her in a bit." He pulled a post-it note off a magazine page and slipped it under the table to Rasche. "Here's your assignment."
He glanced at the note. "The old man, huh. Want me to spell you tonight? You know, before I get started."
Jackson shook his head. "I've got her."
"C'mon. Be a good idea to have a different car parked in your spot awhile. If she spots me, I'm just the creep from the bar followin' her home." He poked Jackson's bicep. "Do ya good to take a night off 'fore things start movin', y'know?"
He shook his head again. "I'm working, Rasche."
"You know what they say about all work an' no play..." He grinned, and Jackson gave him that same glacial stare.
"Why not?" he repeated, half to himself. "Not tonight, though. Tomorrow. She only ever stops for a drink once a week, so she'll be going more or less straight home tomorrow. Stays in most nights. Nothing to it, as long as you can stay awake." Rasche snickered. "Be in position outside her house at 6. I'll see her home and keep on going once I see you there. And Rasche? No. Contact. Don't get cute."
The burly man spread his hands out up in front of him and grinned, then turned to watch Rippner walk to the bar. The blonde tossed her hair and leaned back against the bar, arching her chest up and out. Rippner exchanged a word or two with the bartender as he paid, then glanced down at the blonde and said something brusque. The blonde hastily looked down at her chest and began brushing at her shirt front with her palms.
When she looked up again, Jackson was gone. Rasche chuckled and finished his beer.
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The next morning, Jackson followed Lisa to the Lux Atlantic as usual. Parked across the street in a 30-minute space, got out and stretched his legs with a 15-minute stroll around the block, then got back in his car and pretended to study a road map. He pulled a notebook from his breast pocket and cell phone from his pants pocket, and punched in a number he'd never expected to use, at least not on a day off. Scribbled down an address given him over the phone, then disconnected and waited.
When the meter was one minute from clicking over and he was satisfied Lisa was at work for the duration, he pulled the car smoothly back out into traffic. Found the address with a minimum of wrong turns, and sat in the parked car for two more minutes, tapping a manila file folder against his leg. Finally he made a decision, pulled two sheets from the folder, and got out of the car.
A well-preserved older woman in a couture skirt suit was waiting at a desk inside. They exchanged pleasantries, fencing a bit with the names of mutual acquaintances, testing each other's bona fides and studying each other for traps. Finally satisfied, the woman offered Jackson a seat opposite her at the desk.
"You said you had something specific in mind, I believe?" She arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow.
He put the two sheets down side-by-side on the desk. "I want something as close to this as possible."
She pulled the two 8x10 glossies over, put on discreetly chic half-rimmed bifocals, and studied the photos at arm's length for several minutes.
"Yes. I believe we can accommodate this request." They both sat back and smiled at each other. "It will take a little time to arrange, you understand."
"That's why I came early. I was thinking of this evening." She nodded, and they set to hammering out particulars. An hour later he handed over a startlingly large amount of cash, and left to make his way back to the Lux Atlantic.
Once there, he took off his sport coat, folded it neatly and left it in the back seat. Under it he wore, uncharacteristically, a polo golf shirt, khakis and battered Nikes. He added a baseball cap, pushing his loose hair up underneath, put on cheap reading glasses, and slung a tote bag embroidered with the logo of a company holding a convention at the hotel over his shoulder; he'd nicked the bag off a registration table two days earlier.
Then he ambled into the Lux Atlantic and wandered into the restaurant for lunch. While waiting for his sandwich, he pulled a legal pad, ballpoint pen and several promotional brochures from the bag, pretending to study them intently and make the occasional note. Actually the cloudy lenses of the glasses made them all but illegible.
He only just barely glanced up when Lisa Reisert rushed into the restaurant and took a table, giving her order to a waitress she passed on the way. She made a slow scan of the room, brightening into her calibrated-to-just-two-degrees-warmer-than-necessary professional smile when she saw him at the table opposite her. He glanced up briefly and sketched a half-wave, appearing never to fully take his attention away from his paperwork, and her gaze moved on to the other side of the room. The waitress arrived with his sandwich, body blocking his view of Lisa as she set it down, and by the time his sight line cleared, Lisa had clearly forgotten his existence completely.
Perfect. He applied himself to his sandwich with gusto, and Lisa had already wolfed down her salad and scurried off by the time he finished eating.
He paid the bill and went out the back service entrance, unseen by anyone with the hotel.
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As expected, Lisa left the hotel an hour after her shift ended, and went straight home. Jackson waved to Rasche, who was working a crossword puzzle in the back seat of his SUV, as he passed; Rasche gave him a crooked salute.
Then he went to his room at the Hilton, showered and changed, and went down to the hotel lounge. Scotch in hand, he turned on his barstool for a clear view of the other tables, the tiny bandstand and dance floor, and the door. The liquor lulled him into a warm stupor as he nursed it along; he was accustomed to working long hours and tended to insomnia, but they did take their toll...
Lisa Reisert walked into the lounge. He shot up from his slouch, heart pounding insistently, every nerve on alert. She was wearing a slim black cocktail dress, short and sleeveless, with a long string of pearls. She paused to let her eyes adjust to the dim lighting, did a quick scan of the room, then smiled and headed for the bar.
Jackson stood to let her slip in beside him and motioned for the bartender. "Another, please. And the lady will have..."
"...A seabreeze, please." She opened the tiny black clutch she carried, and he reached over to close it.
"Got it. I'm Jackson, by the way." He put out a hand, and her smile widened. "Lisa." She took his hand, squeezed, held on a moment longer than necessary. Their drinks arrived, and they studied each other in silence for a few moments as they sipped.
"I've seen you around," he said finally. "At the hotel, mostly. Here and there."
"Can't say I've noticed you," she answered, amusement flickering in her eyes. "You, I'm sure I'd have remembered..."
He tilted his glass in her direction. "That's a good thing, I hope?" She grinned and tapped the edge of her glass lightly against his in reply.
They drank, this time in a more companionable silence. The elevator music changed to a new tune, and Lisa brightened. "Oh, I like this song!" He listened a moment, and among the light-orchestra frills he picked out a familiar melody line. 'Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow.' He rose to his feet.
"Care to dance?" She smiled and took his hand, let him help her to her feet. He guided her onto the dance floor and into his arms, and leaned in close as they moved around the floor together. He took a moment to relish the warmth and scent and closeness of her; she settled her head against his shoulder and sighed.
"I've wanted you since the first time I saw you," he murmured in her ear, and felt her cheek curve into a smile. His arms tightened around her. "If you had walked out with that oaf I would have killed him." Her footing faltered, but only for a moment; she drew back slightly to look at him, then dropped her gaze.
"I was waiting for you," she breathed, and he smiled and stopped moving as the song ended.
His fingertips caressed her jawline, pushed her chin up so her eyes met his. "Finish your drink, and then come upstairs with me." She nodded; it had not been a request.
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He had her in his arms the moment the door closed behind them.
His kiss was fervent and relentless, and she gasped for air when he finally released her; she hadn't seen it coming, hadn't caught a sustaining breath beforehand.
She took a step back. Something in the intensity of those staring blue eyes was unsettling. "Easy now. Don't want to scare me off, do you?"
"Maybe I do." His eyes were roaming over her face now, and a hand came up to shift her hair into a different arrangement. "Or maybe not."
She smiled, stepped forward, toyed with the buttons on his shirt. "Better not," she breathed, planting teasing kisses along the edges of his lips.
He started edging her back toward the bed, nuzzling her neck and tugging at the back zipper of her dress as they went. She murmured encouragement, pushing off his jacket and pulling loose his shirt buttons as they went. The dress dropped to the floor just before her calves hit the edge of the bed, and she reached for her pearls as he pushed her onto her back. "Leave those on," he said, straightening up to look her over thoroughly. "Nice touch." Her eyes flew to his face, looking for mockery, but found none.
His hands skimmed the edges of her body, from the outside of her thighs up past her hips, over the strings of her thong, up along her ribcage and just barely skimming the edges of her breasts, finally pushing her arms outspread. He noted the slight tightening of her abdomen and the quickening of her breathing.
"Your turn," she said, voice husky, but he shook his head and reached under her to unhook her bra. She took advantage of his nearness to finish unbuttoning his shirt and push it open, but he stepped away again, pulling the bra off her as he did.
"Don't do that," he growled. "Don't do anything unless I tell you." She looked a bit uncertain, and he softened, running a fingertip lightly from the base of her throat down to the edge of her thong. "Trust me."
She smiled and lay back down. He ran a hand down one of her legs and drew it up at the knee, unbuckled and removed the high-heeled sandal, then repeated the slow process with her other leg. Then he slid both hands back up over her thighs and pulled off the thong. She squirmed a bit under the weight of his stare. "Jackson ...?"
He shook himself out of his reverie and undid his belt and fly, removed his slacks, shoes and socks and joined her on the bed, still clad in open shirt and boxers. Rolled half over her and propped up on all fours, one knee between her thighs and weight resting on his forearms lying on either side of her torso. He leaned down and brushed his lips against hers, and she lifted her head to return the gesture, ran her hands up his biceps. He kissed her hungrily again, and her hands tightened on his arms.
He nuzzled at her throat, along her shoulders and down the smooth skin of her chest to nip at one breast. She murmured encouragement, ran one hand through his hair and slipped the other under his shirt along his back, noted that he tensed when she touched his upper back, relaxed again when her hand moved to his lower back and waist.
He suckled at her nipple and she arched into him; his hand roamed over the curve of her side, her flank and her thigh, just skimming the surface of her groin, and she moaned and pushed at the elastic of his shorts. He let her maneuver the boxers down over his erection and push them off, let her run her hands along his length in a practiced rhythm that made him groan. He returned to her breasts and slid a hand between her legs, stroking and spreading the moisture he found there, listening to the quickening of her breathing.
After a few minutes he pulled back from their mutual ministrations. Adjusted their positions to settle fully between her thighs, pushed her legs up around his hips, and slid into her. Set a slow rocking rhythm and pushed back up on his forearms, studying her face. Her head rolled back and forth, eyes closed, and she mumbled broken phrases of delight until a slight chill swept down her spine. She opened her eyes and found herself pinned under that icy stare.
"...what..." Her hands fluttered across his shoulders; he caught them and held them down over her head, and silenced her with another hard, smothering kiss that went on too long for comfort. She relaxed under him, leaned up to nip at his Adam's apple. "Whatever you say," she breathed into the crook of his neck, and felt the tension uncoil in his shoulders. He released her hands and pulled her closer to him, deepening his strokes, and moaned at the feel of the pearls shifting and rolling between their bodies.
She rolled her hips up to meet his and heard his breathing thicken in his chest; she thought she could make out a word or half-word coming from him now and then, a name. Leese. "Hey," she whispered, stroking his hair back out of his eyes. "I'm here...feel me..." She tensed around him, tightening her arms and legs' grip and closing her internal muscles around his cock, and felt a shudder go through him. He buried his face in her shoulder and said it again, "Lisa," half groan and half sob. His thrusts became faster and more desperate, his breathing more ragged, and she urged him on to his climax.
He collapsed atop her, panting, and she stroked his hair until his breathing slowed. He let his eyes slip closed for just a minute ...
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When Jackson finally woke, he was alone in the room. He rolled over, groaning, to check the clock; 2 a.m. He fell back on the bed and let the night's events roll through his mind, cataloguing each detail, freezing favorite bits for closer review later.
It occurred to him that this was the most sleep he'd had in one go in over a month. It also occurred to him that he'd skipped dinner, and the sandwich he'd eaten at the Lux was only a faint memory.
He got up, collected the remainder of his clothes, reflexively checking the pockets; she hadn't robbed him, but then, she hadn't really needed to. On second thought, he pulled a metal suitcase from behind the armoire, unlocked it and checked its contents. Neither the case itself, the lock or any of his research materials showed any signs of disturbance. Good. He stowed the case again, showered, redressed and left.
By 3 a.m. he had made his way to a chain 24-hour diner on the edge of downtown. He slouched down and made himself comfortable in a back booth, ordered a combo plate with what was for him an unusually large amount of food - either his "night off" had left him with more of an appetite, or less patience for self-denial, than usual. He pulled a battered Agatha Christie paperback from his pocket, asked the waitress for a coffee refill when she passed - adding, "and keep it coming, please" - and settled in, lingering over food, book and coffee for more than an hour.
Then he drove a winding route through residential streets, found a secluded spot to leave the car, and let himself in the back door of a duplex townhouse.
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The door to the right-hand unit opened into the living room, and he used a penlight to survey it as he moved effortlessly through the dark. He knew this apartment already, almost as well as his own home. The tiny light shone on the expected book, empty popcorn bowl and Netflix packet on the sofa. The scent wafting from the bathroom told him a bubble bath had been on tap this evening, and as he expected, the smell of scrambled eggs mingled with it from the direction of the kitchen.
Lisa was sound asleep in bed; he'd found she only fell into a deep sleep after 3 a.m., eggs or no eggs, no matter how long she'd given over to fits and starts. Once he saw her turn in at 8, after what he assumed was a difficult day at work; he watched the bathroom or the kitchen light come on, one or the other, roughly every 50 minutes until she gave in and made herself the scrambled eggs. After that, the lights went out and stayed out.
She had kicked off the comforter and tangled up the flat sheet around her midsection, giving Jackson a fairly thorough view of her. She wore an old, faded T-shirt over plaid pajama bottoms cut off just above the knee; the hem of the shirt had rucked up a few inches as she slept, exposing a tantalizing strip of pale skin.
He eased open the closet door and skimmed the penlight inside: as expected, many business-suitable separates, but no evening wear. In her jewelry box he did find a string of pearls, much smaller and quieter than the one with the black dress; the rest was good-quality gold, but unobtrusive. A laundry basket with a pile of freshly folded clothes sat atop the hope chest she used as a nightstand. He eased over to it and poked gently through the stack. Serviceable bras and plain bikini-cut panties; nice, but not Victoria's Secret, much less Frederick's of Hollywood.
Then he squatted on the balls of his feet beside the bed, as closely as he dared, and studied her.
The illusion hadn't been perfect, of course. He hadn't expected that; there was only so much even a very exclusive house of prostitution could do with eight hours' notice, two photographs and his descriptions. But Jackson was too much of a detail person not to notice the little inconsistencies. They'd kept taking him out of the moment.
It was worth the money just for that moment when his imitation Lisa had walked into the lounge and for him, the world stopped. But still.
The call girl was a little taller and a little curvier than his Lisa - she was all soft skin over lean muscle, and seldom wore her heels all that high because her legs didn't need them; her calves and thighs were that well-toned all on their own, he saw now. The hairstyle hadn't been quite right, and he couldn't stop himself from fixing it; looking at his Lisa up close, he saw the color had been slightly off as well. The pictures hadn't done it justice.
He watched her sleep carefully, eyes wide, drawing a map of her features in his mind. Two beauty marks, the one his impostor had duplicated just below her lips, and a less noticeable one just below her left eye. Creamy skin with a tendency to freckle rather than tan. Manicured nails but not perfect ones, she used her hands too much at work to avoid chipping or splitting. She slept on her side, curled into a comma, and clutched at her pillow.
She shifted in her sleep and mumbled something, possibly "don't want to"; when the moment of freezing panic passed, he realized her voice was a bit higher than the call girl's. He'd never been near enough to hear her voice before.
Jackson sighed and ran a hand over her form, not quite close enough to graze her. "Someday, Leese," he whispered. "Maybe, for real ... "
Then he stood slowly and cautiously, and made his way back out of the apartment.
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A thump sounded on the hood of the SUV, and Rasche jerked awake with a start. He rolled down his window to find Rippner leaning against the door, smirking and offering coffee. "I swear I only shut my eyes for a second!"
"No problem. She'll've stayed in. Almost always does. A homebody, our Miz Reisert is." Rasche breathed a sigh of relief. "I'll take over here. Go clean up and pick up with your own assignment."
"Eggs. She made eggs. I could smell 'em. That's about all the excitement there's been." Rippner nodded. "I coulda gone for some'a those eggs..."
"End of the street, turn left, another left at the second light, and you'll find a Denny's four blocks over. Not exactly haute cuisine, but it's hot and there's plenty of it."
"Sweet." He took the coffee from Jackson, downed it in three gulps, and grinned. "So how was the night off?"
Jackson shrugged, moved a hand back and forth. "Not bad. All things considered."
-end-