Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

Author's Notes: Man, I am just pumping out these chapters. Lucky you guys. ;) Thank you to everyone who's been reviewing. You motivate me to write faster. Enjoy Chapter Three!

Updated Author's Notes: Due to some displeasure I was feeling with regards to this chapter, I've edited it a bit and reposted it. There are no majorly significant changes (i.e. plot twists, character introductions, etc) but you will notice a difference in some of the dialogue and such. A thank you goes out to LithiumAddict for not allowing me to settle. And a big thank you as well to those of you who have already reviewed. Like I said, you keep me going. Enjoy (the new) Chapter Three!

"There's a young man in there."

Lisa started, almost dropping her keys as she tried to place them in the lock. Clutching her paper bag of groceries tighter, she whirled around to see her neighbour Mrs. Greenberg standing there in her housecoat and slippers, leaning against the doorframe of her open door.

"Excuse me?" she said, her voice cracking as she turned and looked warily at her own closed door. It was only eight-thirty p.m.

"In David's apartment," Mrs. Greenberg continued, motioning across the hall. "A young man came by earlier and he hasn't left."

"Maybe it's his brother?" Lisa said, although she knew that the sexual orientation of her young, handsome neighbour was not something that the elderly, set-in-her-ways woman would approve of. She tried to place her key in the lock once more, attempting to keep her hand steady.

"Hmph. Maybe." Mrs. Greenberg peered at Lisa keenly. "How have you been sleeping, sweetheart?"

Lisa, who was halfway in her apartment at this point, took a step back to look back at the other woman. "Why?"

"Do you have nightmares?"

Now Lisa was fully back in the hallway, clutching the grocery bag even tighter. "Why do you ask, Mrs. Greenberg?"

"I've told you to call me Ann, darling," Mrs. Greenberg said with a kindly smile.

Lisa held onto her patience. "Excuse me, Ann. Why do you ask?"

"Because of the screams I keep hearing."

Lisa looked at her neighbour warily, contemplating. Should she tell Mrs. Greenberg about Jackson? What would she say? What could the woman do, anyway? She was pushing seventy-five, at least. She would just call the police, and Lisa was sick of police officers. What could the cops do with someone above the law?

"Night terrors," she heard herself say, a false smile plastered on her face. "You're right, it is like nightmares. Stress, I guess. I've talked to my doctor about it." Smile, smile, smile.

Mrs. Greenberg tsk'ed sympathetically. "You've got to take better care of yourself, darling. This isn't healthy."

"I know, Mrs.—Ann. Thank you for your concern." Lisa started to go back into her apartment again.

"Of course, of course. You let me know if you need anything."

"Yes, thank you. Thank you."

"Anytime, darling. You take care." Both women found their way back into their respective apartments, and Lisa shut the door firmly behind her. She let out a big, shaky sigh and attempted to collect her bearings. It was bad enough her life was a mess, but now she was inadvertently inviting her neighbours into it, too. Making a right into her open-concept kitchen, she placed the grocery bag on the counter and tossed her keys in their ceramic dish. She was just shrugging off her jacket, when she heard a voice behind her.

"Hey, honey. Back so soon?"

"Oh, Jesus!" Her whole body jerked in surprise and she got caught in her coat trying to turn around.

"No," he replied calmly, smiling as he hoisted himself off the wall behind her. "Jackson."

All she could do was stare at him, wide-eyed, still stuck.

"Here," he said, coming towards her. "Let me help." He motioned towards the grocery bag.

She jerked it out of his reach. "I thought you weren't going to be here until ten."

"I finished early. Grocery shopping?"

"I was out of milk, so I stopped by the convenience store. What, does stalker-duty not include checking out the contents of my fridge?" she snapped, still angry and reeling. She jerked off her coat and tossed it on the counter, then unconsciously placed a hand over her rapidly beating heart.

The smile he gave her unnerved her. As all his smiles did. "See for yourself."

She shot him a wary look. What was that supposed to mean?

His expression was the condescending one that he so favoured. "The fridge? Check it out."

Still maintaining the same sceptical appearance, she stalked over to her fridge and yanked it open. Empty just earlier that day, before she had left to run errands, it was now stocked full. Fruits, vegetables, breads, bagels, cold cuts, cheeses, yogurts. And, of course, milk. Her mouth dropped of its own volition and all she could do was gape. She then turned to look at him, incredulous and speechless.

He met her gaze. "I told you, you need to eat."

She scowled at him, unimpressed with his supposed care for her well-being. "Hey, maybe if you can cook, too, I'll keep you around."

His face broke into a genuine smile, one lacking the usually patronising or sinister overtones. "Lisa Reisert making a joke with her 'would-be murderer'? The man who 'terrorised' her? Nicely done."

She shot him a withering look. "I was mocking you. There's a difference."

He maintained his smile. "Not to me. Nice pants."

She looked down at her fitted tweed dress pants. "What?"

"I've never seen you in anything but dress pants and skirts—at least not when you knew you were going to have company," he added, remembering the occasions when he'd seen her in her pyjamas.

"You're one to talk," she scoffed, motioning to his own dress pants ensemble.

"I don't wear skirts."

"You know what I mean."

Jackson shrugged. "My appearance is part of my job."

"So is mine."

"You're off-duty."

"So are you."

His eyes glimmered. There was silence.

"Are you ever going to tell me why you're really doing this?" she asked finally, moving over to take her meagre collection of groceries out of their bag. They would just have to share room with his, she decided.

He let out a hefty sigh. "Would you stop? Seriously, Lise. It's getting old."

"I have a right to know," she snapped, holding a carton of milk in one hand and a loaf of bread in the other as though she were a scale.

"You have plenty of rights. Exercise more important ones. Voted lately?"

She gave him a scornful look before placing her groceries in the fridge, shoving aside some of his. "This is insane," she muttered, head in the refrigerator.

"So you've said on prior occasions. Why don't you just relax and enjoy my company?" If she hadn't known better, she would have thought he was pleading with her. But she knew better.

"Because my knee and my shoulder and my wrist still hurt whenever it rains, for being tossed down a flight of stairs," she retorted, slamming the door shut so hard that the freezer door popped open. She slammed that, too.

"You stabbed me in the windpipe and the leg and shot me," he pointed out.

"I also tenderised you with a field hockey stick," she reminded him, smugly. "And that was all self-defence!"

"The tracheotomy wasn't," he told her. "Perhaps I should call the police on you. I can cry assault, too."

Her mouth dropped open. As sick as it was, he was probably right. She attempted to regain her position. "If I called my dad, he'd be here in a second to finish the job," she threatened.

It didn't have the desired effect. He laughed at her. "Yeah, but then I'd kill him."

For some reason, she was shocked. Damn her, but she was getting used to the diplomatic Jackson who was seemingly trying to get on her good side. "No, you wouldn't," she tried calling his bluff.

"Lisa." There was the patronising tone again. "Just because I like you and am not physically hurting you right now, doesn't mean I'm any less of a 'bad guy', mmkay?"

She breathed out an incredulous laugh. "You're pleading your case real well, Jackson. Keep it up, it really makes me want to spend more time with you."

He scoffed. "As if you have a choice."

His control over her infuriated her. She clenched her jaw so tightly she thought her teeth were going to shatter. "Fine, Jack. You're right. I can't physically make you leave, nor can I keep you out apparently. But I can just not talk to you."

He couldn't help the laugh that escaped his lips. "I dare you to try."

Fifteen minutes later, the only sound in room was the television set. For the past thirteen minutes it had been like that. The first two minutes had been spent with Jackson mocking Lisa in an attempt to get her to speak. When that didn't work, he fell silent, too. They had somehow both ended up on the leather couch in her living room, sitting rigidly at opposite ends, a show about reckless homemakers playing in the background. It had become a childish battle of who would crack first, and both were determined to win. In the sixteenth minute, Lisa got up. Jackson refused to look at her, instead inwardly berating himself for participating in such utter foolishness but still unwilling to break the silence.

She made her way into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of cranberry juice, which she then carried back to the couch. He allowed himself a sidelong glance as she sipped the vibrant red juice slowly. Sip after sip. When there was about a finger left, she made a move to put it down on the couch. At the last second, she deliberately tipped it over his lap.

"You bitch!" he exploded, jumping off the couch and untucking his shirt in a feeble attempt to prevent the sticky juice from seeping further into his clothes.

She laughed loudly and uninhibitedly, her head thrown back.

He looked at her, murder on his face that quickly faded when he saw her laughing. She had such a ridiculous, braying laugh, he couldn't help the barely-suppressed grin that almost erupted. Sure, his shirt was ruined. But her laughter almost made it worthwhile.

Almost.

"I win," she informed him smugly, still laughing and holding the empty glass like a trophy.

"Yeah, but now you lose, because I'm going to kill you," Jackson growled, holding his shirt away from his body with his right hand, then making a half-hearted attempt to grab her with his left.

She evaded him easily. "Relax. I have the Shout Gel."

He was scrubbing at his shirt with a napkin he found on the coffee table and didn't look at her. "The what?"

"Shout Gel. It gets out stains. Give me your shirt." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realised what she said and her gesturing hand dropped to her side.

He stopped what he was doing, too, and looked at her. Seeing the expression on her face, he allowed a smirk to cross over his. "Really, Lise. There are easier ways to seduce me. Just asking, for instance."

She blushed. He was amazed that a twenty-eight year old woman could still blush. "Fine, then let it stain. What do I care?" She crossed her arms and sat back down.

"No, no," he interjected. "You started this, you can finish it." With that, he swiftly unbuttoned his cream-coloured dress shirt and peeled it off. He was still wearing an undershirt, but it clung to every defined muscle and curve on his slender, but well-toned body and did absolutely nothing to conceal his sinewy biceps and strong arms. He noticed her noticing, and he would be lying to himself if he said it didn't fill him with inordinate pleasure to know that she found his body pleasing, if her flustered and slightly awed expression was any indication of that. It was only for a brief moment or two, though, before that feeling of pleasure quickly began to turn unpleasant as his mind started to question his motives behind it. He tossed the shirt at her to break the spell. "Clean it, woman."

It worked in snapping her out of her reverie, like he knew it would. "Clean it yourself, Jack-off." She threw it back at him, quite deliberately in his face.

Jack-off? He sighed. "I apologise. Seriously, though, can you clean it? O Wise Lise, of the Shout Gel?" he added, with a smile that was used to having orders obeyed.

She rolled her eyes and sighed back, grudgingly taking it from him. "Only because I can't stand to see a stain. Hang on, let me grab you another shirt." She left the room with his stained top to go into her bedroom.

"Somehow I don't think your shirts will fit me," he called out to her, rubbing his arms against the chill in her apartment. Could the girl not afford heating?

"Don't be so sure about that," was the deadpan response.

He stood upright in affront as she came back with an oversized, grey Yale t-shirt. He accepted it from her with distaste. "You shouldn't have. A Yalie, huh?"

A shadow crossed over her face. "It was my brother's."

"Was?" His voice was muffled as he pulled it over his head.

"Yeah." She looked away. "He died five years ago."

"Oh." He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry."

"Me too," she replied simply. "I'm going to take the stain out now." She motioned to the shirt as she backed into the laundry room, adjacent to her bedroom.

He shrugged. "Okay. I'll be here."

She looked upwards, seemingly for guidance. "Yeah. I know," she muttered as she took her leave.

She came back five minutes later. Jackson was flipping through a book he found on her coffee table, a large hardcover detailing the history of Manolo Blahnik. She suppressed a smirk at his reading choice and flopped down beside him with a sigh. He looked at her briefly before turning back to the book.

"Okay, I put the gel on it and threw it in the washing machine. It should be as good as new soon."

"Good."

She turned fully in her seat and raised her eyebrow at him, giving him an expectant look. He met her gaze after a beat, seemingly more interested in shoes than her.

"Well, I'd say thank you, but it's your fault it's like that to begin with," he pointed out.

"Still," she said haughtily. "I didn't have to do it."

He sighed heavily. "Thank you."

She nodded regally. He turned back to the book and she watched her show, and they fell into a somewhat-comfortable extended silence. When it was a commercial, Jackson looked up and placed the book back on her table. He then saw fit to break the tentative quiet.

"How did your brother die?"

Lisa was shocked at his audacity. "What makes you think for a second that you have a right to know that?"

He rolled his eyes. "You know what your problem is?"

"Oh, please, enlighten me," she said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"You don't talk to people. You shut them out, bottle your feelings in, and deal with the hurt all by yourself. That's why you never heal. 'I'm fine, I'm fine', that's all you say. You use it as your mask, but you're not fine and you haven't been fine for a long time. Five years, is what I'm guessing."

She met his accusatory look with a steady one of her own. "You're right."

Surprise rippled through him, but he tried to cover it. "I know."

She nodded, not responding to his arrogant remark. "But I'm still not telling you about Todd." As soon as the name slipped out, she realised her mistake in revealing it.

"Todd," he repeated. "You know, I thought it was odd that you randomly had a boy's room in your house when there was no indication of a boy anywhere in your life."

She looked at him curiously. "What?"

He gave her a chiding look. "The room where I was hiding behind the door? After the red-eye?"

Her mouth formed an o-shape. "Right." She smiled sadly. "What can I say, it's my sentimental father. My room's untouched, too, and I've been out of the house for, like, eight years."

"Yeah, but you aren't dead."

She glared at him. "How about you don't question people's ways of dealing with grief, alright?"

He held his hands up in surrender. "Tell me how he died," he insisted, after a moment.

"Why do you care?"

"Call it professional curiosity. Death is my business."

She grimaced. "That's sick."

"It's fact, Lisa," he corrected bluntly. "People have unpleasant jobs, unpleasant lives."

She let out a breathy chuckle, looking down at her trembling hands. "Yeah." The ever-present silence fell down on them again. Just when Jackson was about to speak, Lisa beat him to it.

"Drunk driving."

It took him a minute to clue in. "Ah. Him, or…?"

Lisa looked up at Jackson to give him an angry look. "No, not him. He wasn't an idiot. It was someone else. He lived. The someone else, I mean."

"I gathered, yeah."

She blew out a gust of air, sniffling loudly. "Yeah." She scrubbed at her teary eyes. "All I do is cry. I hate it." She let out a frustrated noise, pressing her fingers to her eyes even as tears leaked between them.

"You're beautiful when you cry."

She dropped her hands and looked at him surprised, searching his face for signs of ill-intent or mockery. There were none. It was the most open she had ever seen his expression.

"Shut up," she told him, not wanting to hear it. Not from him.

"Your eyes go greener," he continued as though he hadn't heard her, "your lips redder. More swollen." He glanced at the very lips he had just spoken of and she bit them to prevent their trembling.

"Yeah, my eyes also go redder and more swollen. So does my nose. I look like I just had an allergic reaction to something." She tried cutting through the heavy tension in the air by lightening the mood, but she could see that he was having none of it.

"Beautiful," he repeated. He had moved closer to her without her even noticing. All she could do was look into his shockingly blue eyes and try very hard not to drown.

"Shut up," she said again, her voice dropping to a whisper.

He reached out and in one swift motion grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her down to meet him. She resisted at first, squeaking in surprise and feebly struggling against him, but he brought his other hand up and anchored her face to his. If he had been devouring her lips in a vicious, violent kiss, she would have done everything in her power to break away. Instead, however, he peppered her mouth with soft, nibbling kisses, going from one corner to the other, up and down. She moved her hands away from his chest, where they'd been trying to push him away, and up onto his forearms. She ran them through the light hair there, enjoying the crisp sensation on her palms. As soon as he felt her begin to yield, he deepened the kiss, coaxing her mouth open and sweeping his tongue in.

A moan built deep in her throat, too deep to come out, but still there. She responded tentatively at first, touching her tongue to his, allowing him to persuade her further into accepting it, accepting him. Her inhibitions fell slowly, as her arms weaved their way around his neck, pulling him closer. She didn't think. Not a single conscious thought passed through her mind. All she did, all she could do, was let herself feel. His hands swept down her face, around her back, grabbing fistfuls of her silk top and dragging her on his lap. She tasted like cranberry juice, its tanginess just enough to slowly shred his carefully-managed control. Suddenly and without specific cause, he felt her stiffen like a corpse in his arms.

She had stopped feeling and started thinking.

No, no, his mind pleaded, desperate to maintain this drugging pleasure. Fuck.

As soon as the words passed through his mind, she had pushed him away violently and then, as added insult, cracked him across the face with the flat of her hand.

His passion-clogged mind still reeling from the kiss, he was slow to respond to her assault. He just looked at her dumbly, taking in her dishevelled appearance, hooded eyes and full, dewy lips. She looked like a woman who had been thoroughly kissed. He had to admit, he was impressed with himself. Then he saw her reach up and fiercely scrub her lips, wiping his kiss away. His eyes flashed with anger.

"How dare you?" she hissed. "You purposely made me vulnerable and then you attacked. You're a pig."

"I prefer to think that I'm more of a predator than a pig," he responded, his light tone belying the turmoil within him.

She just shook her head in disgust. "You should leave," she said firmly, but quietly, refusing to look at him.

He looked at her for a long time, saying nothing, his eyes scanning her face. Still she looked away. He contemplated refusing, but decided it would be a more fitting punishment to let her stew and obsess about it. "All right," he conceded.

She was surprised by his acquiescence, but attempted to cover it. "Good." She brought a shaky hand up to her mussed hair in an attempt to fix it and turned back to the TV, studiously ignoring him.

He brushed past her around the front of the couch, and then paused at the back.

"Until next week." She heard the rustling of his clothing, then felt him lean down and press a kiss on the top of her head.

Her eyes closed for the briefest of moments and she swallowed hard. "Jack—" she began, sitting upright and turning around.

But he was gone.

She turned back and sat heavily back down, letting out a shaky sigh. After a minute, she realised that he had taken Todd's shirt and left his own. She swore under her breath. He was effectively trying to replace important parts of her life with himself and his presence. She thought about the groceries as well.

And beneath her anger, there was an honest to God fear that he was succeeding.