Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters! And thanks to emptyvoices for helping talk me through where this goes next!
Chapter 9
After Jackson unpacked the groceries, he stretched out on the sofa to sleep and I paced the floor for a while. I thought about journaling, because I had my notebook in the side pocket of my purse, but frankly, just then I wasn't sure I wanted to explore any new truths about myself. So I paced, from the window that looked out into the street, to the door to check the deadbolt, and back again. I watched Jackson sleep for a time, chewing my bottom lip and trying to make some sort of sense out of him, out of me, out of everything that had happened over the past twenty-four hours. Nothing came together; nothing made sense. All of it was too vivid and I felt overwhelmed by it. After a while I curled up on the brown cotton spread covering the bed, and I, too, went to sleep.
When I awoke, Jackson was working, alternating between laptop and cell phone. He had several phones of the prepaid variety he shuffled amongst. He was, he told me, laying a false trail under all of his known identities, making multiple reservations at airlines, hotels, and car rental agencies throughout the Czech Republic and Germany.
"This will keep Rade – and the police - busy for a while," he explained. "I rented this place under a name no one else knows about. I don't think it's likely anyone recognized us on the street earlier today, so we should be safe here at least through tonight."
"And then what?"
"According to news reports, 'the owner' of the chateau has gone into seclusion in an 'undisclosed place'. I don't know where that is. I've got to find out," he said. "So I can finish this."
I knew that the only successful finish, as far as Jackson was concerned, was Rade's death. I felt no moral obligation to interfere with this plan. My goal right now was simple: live through tonight, get up tomorrow morning and live through another day. Crusading for due process of the law on behalf of Rade Vaschenko was a luxury I couldn't afford today.
Actually, I did have a goal of lesser importance. I wanted a shower and a change of clothes. While Jackson spieled words in German, I think it was, into a cell phone, I prowled around and found a small stash of men's clothing folded neatly inside one of the cabinets. I dug through them and came up with a white t-shirt and navy sweat pants. I had toothpaste and minimal cosmetics in my purse, and so, armed with supplies I stole away to the bathroom. A quick snoop inside a mirrored cabinet over the sink uncovered shampoo, body wash and deodorant, all with a French label I wasn't familiar with. Despite the shabby surroundings of this apartment, apparently Jackson had standards when it came to personal care items. I uncapped the body wash and sniffed. It smelled wonderful. I helped myself to all of it, and came out of the bathroom feeling immensely refreshed.
After the day darkened into evening, we shared a meal of fresh bread, cheese, fruit and a very good cabernet. Rather than dine under the harsh fluorescent kitchen light, I'd found some utility candles in a kitchen drawer, lit them, and stuck them on saucers. Jackson, fresh from the shower himself, plugged in a boom box and tuned it to an English speaking station that played an interesting mix of jazz, blues and rock. I was starved, and we ate in companionable silence until Jackson said, out of the blue, "So. Tell me about your little friend, Matthew."
I looked up with a chunk of bread halfway to my lips. "What about him?"
His hair, still damp from the shower, clung to his neck beneath the collar of his denim shirt. He flipped it loose with deft fingers. "Is this a serious thing?"
"Drop it," I said. "He's really very sweet and he's none of your business."
" 'He's really very sweet'," he mimicked. "Well, that answers my question. That phrase is a death knell in any relationship."
I blushed and decided to turn the tables on him. "Okay, now it's my turn to ask a question."
"What, are we playing truth or dare now?"
"You started it. I want to know who you really are, Jackson."
"You mean my name? Or do you want my life history?"
"Just the basics will be fine. Where you came from, who raised you, that sort of thing. And yeah, your name."
He got up, carried our plates to the sink, and turned on the tap to rinse them. "There's not much to tell," he finally said. "I grew up poor, raised mostly by an aunt who already had six kids. My mother - she was a dancer. When I was seven or eight she went off to New York City to 'make it big'. She said she'd be back for me. I don't know what happened to her. The city swallowed her up and I've never been able to trace her. I'm sure she's dead." He said this without any trace of emotion. "And I never knew my father. Anyway, I scored pretty high on my SATs and was the obligatory poor kid on full scholarship at Harvard. I got my MBA there and I swore I'd never be poor again. That's pretty much it. Is that what you wanted to know?"
"You must have had perfect SAT scores to go to Harvard on scholarship." I said. "That's pretty impressive. So how did you end up in your current… occupation?"
"That's two questions, Leese. I get another one after this." He uncorked a second bottle of wine and relocated to the sofa, wine glass and bottle in hand. I followed with the candles and my own glass, and settled in the opposite corner. "How did I end up a criminal, is that what you're asking? Well, I was 'noticed' by a recruiter during my undergraduate days. I started doing small jobs and as I got better, the jobs got bigger. It's what I'm good at. It's what I do. Oh, and my name really is Jackson. Now it's my turn: why did you give up the piano?"
"What? How did you know that?" And then I remembered. "Oh, right."
"When we were in Rade's office that first night at the club. You said you don't play anymore. I want to know why. Did you quit playing after you were attacked?"
"I don't want to-"
"You don't want to talk about it. Right. Lisa, you hug that dirty little secret so close to you it's going to choke you someday."
"It's not a secret. And I didn't ask you to play therapist." I drew my knees up and wrapped my arms around them. "And I did tell you about it."
"Yes, yes you did, Leese," Jackson nodded solemnly. "And then you stabbed me with a pen. A Frankenstein pen, I believe. Why are you laughing?"
"Well, it is pretty funny. And you needed stabbing." Then I sobered, remembering Rade laughed last night about this very thing, about the pen.
"Hey, don't stop. I like to see you laugh. You should do it more often. It looks good on you."
"You're right, though," I admitted. "I did stop playing after – after I was attacked. I didn't feel like I had any music left in me after that. I stopped doing a lot of things." My voice trailed off and I looked down at my wine glass, tracing the rim with my finger.
"Hey Leese?" I looked up. "Promise me when we get out of here you'll play something for me. Anything but "New World Symphony". I'm a little burned on Slavic at the moment."
"Yeah. Me, too. But do they have pianos in Federal prison?"
"Why? Are you planning on going to prison?"
I smiled. "Only to visit you."
Then I set my wine glass on the floor and looked directly at Jackson. "Am I going to get out of this alive?"
"I hope so. I hope we both do. I am doing my best to make that happen." His eyes held mine steadily. "Tonight we get to take a break from all of that. But tomorrow it begins again. Be ready, Lisa, and be brave."
We watched the candles burn low, listened to the music, and said nothing for a long while.
Well
my heart knows me better than I know myself
So I'm gonna let it do
all the talking.
(woo-hoo,woo-hoo)
Jackson was sprawled in a posture of complete relaxation and I lost myself for a while in the hypnotic glow of the flame.
but i said no, no,
no,no-no-no
i said no, no, you're not the one for me
no, no,
no,no-no-no
i said no, no, you're not the one for me
(ooooo,woo-hoo)
"Is that true, Leese?" Jackson's eyes were closed. He sounded dreamy and mellow; the candlelight seemed to soften the angular planes of his face.
"Is what true?"
"What she's singing. That 'I'm not the one for you'." The guitar was bluesy and primal; the singer's voice was like raw honey. I reached across the space between us and closed my fingers around his hand.
"Yeah, it's true." Lifting his hand to my mouth, I closed my lips around his forefinger and traced the tip of it with my tongue. Jackson inhaled sharply; I felt his pulse throb against my tongue.
"What are you doing, Leese?" His voice was low with a fine edge of tension in it.
And
my heart had a problem, in the early hours,
So I stopped it dead
for a beat or two.
(woo-hoo,woo-hoo)
I grazed his finger lightly between my teeth and then reluctantly released it, just long enough to say. "I'm not sure."
"You'd better figure it out." His body was relaxed, but deceptively so, I thought. I was put in mind of a tiger pretending disinterest but preparing to leap. "I told you earlier I'd leave you alone. I'm about to change my mind."
"Sometimes it makes sense to reassess," I said softly. "In order to make informed decisions."
"Did you learn that in one of your management seminars?" He glanced over at his hand, still held close to my face. "Let go."
I opened my fingers. He caught my wrists, pinned them to my side and languidly draped himself across the sofa, up and over me. I unfurled my own legs beneath him. He settled himself on top of me and brushed my hair from my face.
"Last chance to fly away to safety," he said. "After this, you're mine."
No,
no, no,no-no-no
Said no, no, you're not the one for me
I arched my neck and touched my tongue to the scar on his throat. "I'm not afraid of you," I breathed.
"Just for the record, because I do like to keep my word" he said, moving ever so slightly to fit ever so snugly between my thighs. "Are you asking?"
A startled gasp escaped from my throat; I writhed slightly beneath him. "Yeah. I'm asking."
Big
black horse and a cherry tree
I can't quite get there cause my
heart's forsaken me
Big black horse and a cherry tree
I can't
quite get there cause my heart's forsaken me
---------------------------------------------------
We suited one another very well. I think I'd always known we would. That was one of those little aspects of the red eye flight I'd filed under deep cover with a label that screamed, "Deny! Deny!" After all, who can reconcile those subtle little hints of attraction with the reality of someone who has held you hostage on a crowded airplane, choked you in a tiny bathroom, and stolen you clear across the Atlantic? It's not really okay within the bounds of normal society to have these feelings for someone who has done these things to you.
Right now, however, I wasn't living in a normal society. And right now I chose to live in the moment. I knew I might not be here tomorrow to worry about it.
We were intense that first time; later we were playful and we laughed together. And in the early hours of the morning while Jackson slept, I rose from the bed, sliding my ankles from beneath Jackson's strong calf muscles, giving up the warmth of his chest against my back. Drawing the discarded bedspread across my shoulders, I sat before the window gazing out at a hangnail moon, just feeling and for once, not thinking. I'd done too much thinking over the past three years. I'd lived on rational thought, steering clear of anything that smacked of strong emotion. Tonight that wasn't so. Tonight I felt everything. And oddly, I felt healed.
After a while he came to me, took my hand, and led me silently back to bed, murmuring, "Having second thoughts?"
"No." I touched his cheek. "None."
"I'm glad," he said, reaching for me again. Afterwards, just before I drifted into sleep, I heard him whisper, "Stay strong. No matter what happens."
-------------------------------------
Sometime before daylight he must have slipped away from me, must have risen from the bed to dress in the clothing he'd scattered so hastily the night before. After that, he must have packed away his personal items - his expensive French toiletries, his hairbrush and toothbrush. He must have stowed his laptop away in a locked cabinet – or maybe he took it with him.
When I awoke, it was full daylight, the police were at the door, and he was gone.
A/N – I do not own any lyrics by K. T. Tunstall