Thanks for all the reviews!
As for the questions about time frame, I did some research and there has been a great deal of North Korean rebel uprisings in recent years and in the mid 90's. They were mainly handled by U.S. Special Forces, which I get into in this chapter. Also, it's fiction, so if the timing is a little off, please forgive me. If you will, suspend disbelief for a little while. :)
Much thanks again to Musique et Amour and all the squeers on PPN! Love you guys!
Monj--the cheese toastie is for you!
What do I get to get me through this sleepless nights?
And what do I have to hold when no one's there to hold me tight?
And what do I see the only thing that gets me through this?
That's what I feel and I feel you.
I Feel You, Away From the Sun, 3 Doors Down
Chapter Two: That's What I Feel
Women.
They'd always played a role in his life. He'd been taught from an early age that women were to be respected, treated courteously, and dealt with gently because they were the weaker sex. His own mother had been a living example of that.
Magdelena DeLauter had been petite, beautiful, and fragile as their Sunday china. And just as easily broken. Her feelings were hurt at the drop of a hat and nothing was more pitiful than tears rolling down her porcelain face, cornflower-blue eyes wounded, and cherub-bow lips trembling. She'd had hair like spun gold and when the light had struck her at a certain angle, it had formed a brilliant halo about her. An angel, everyone had called her. And as distant and unattainable as one.
For the short while that she'd been a part of his life, until his sixteenth year when a fast-moving cancer had taken her with only a six-week warning, he'd regarded her as something that could be admired, appreciated, enjoyed, but not touched. She'd never been physically affectionate, preferring timid pats on the head to a hug, or a faint squeeze with one small hand to a goodnight kiss. It wasn't that she hadn't loved either her husband or her son. Just that she didn't know how to show it and neither man had the heart to try to force anything out of her that she wasn't willing to give.
His father had instilled that respect of females into him. With his own wife such a delicate and vulnerable creature, he'd had no choice but to teach his son to handle her just as carefully. In fact, to treat all women as he would treat Magdelana: like a priceless piece of china.
Charles DeLauter had passed away only two years after his wife, only a week after Erik had left for the U.S. Army Ranger's boot camp. He'd left behind a gentle legacy, one which Erik had taken to heart and that the military had both instilled and beat out of him. In the presence of one's superiors, a soldier was to be the epitome of respect and discipline. Regarding women, he was to be only a gentleman and a protector.
However, when the commanding office was no longer present and the co-eds and local girls about the base made themselves available and willing, it was a completely different story. Then, they were just there for the sweet, hot paradise between their thighs. There to make him feel like a man. Erik had been both a gentleman and a hungry, passionate lover. He'd had no qualms with availing himself of what they offered to him and took as many as were willing and caught his interest to his bed. Yet he'd treated each with respect and made certain, before they ever hit the sheets, that they knew there were no strings, no commitments. He'd never broken any hearts and certainly never had his broken. He'd left each woman content, satisfied, and with their feelings intact.
Even the first prostitute that had ever taken his money had been treated as nothing less than a lady by him...only for having her to be the one choice to destroy his life, the life of his friends and any chance for him to ever have another woman.
It was because of that ingrained respect for women that he'd crossed the street without thought to make certain the woman was alright when that ass had spilled coffee upon her face. The man hadn't even apologized after nearly knocking her to her feet. That was no way to treat a lady.
He'd never seen her before today.
Of course, that was certainly no surprise. He rarely looked up from his playing, never bothered to categorize a face or acknowledge any around him. His elderly lady was truly the first he'd even vocally responded to besides those who might ask the time or directions and even then they often received no more than a point or a few grunted words.
However, if he'd been an observant man, as he'd once been, and took willing notice of those around him, he would have never forgotten her once he might have caught a glimpse of her face.
It wasn't until he'd stood directly before her that he'd noticed she was anything but the ordinary, unremarkable woman that she'd appeared to be from across the street. From that distance it was impossible to tell that the short, dark curls were such a rich ebony that they caught the light and sent it gently glistening back. Or that the pale face was a rose-tinted cream with a delicate smattering of freckles across her nose and the tops of her cheeks. Or that the blue eyes were not merely blue at all but the color of the waters of the Caribbean; shifting shades of aqua and sea-foam green ringed by a fringe of dark, thick lashes. Or that her figure was not thin, yet not heavy, but directly between the two, a fascinating combination of soft curves and firm lines, as if she was used to hard work.
She was beautiful, yet...not. The traits that made her beautiful were, on their own, attractive and enticing. Put together with a mouth that was a little too wide for her face and a small nose that was slightly crooked, as if it had been broken one too many times, and those generous curves upon a body perhaps too short in stature to carry them off well, she was merely a mismatched puzzle, imperfect upon first glance, yet charming in the same moment.
The small burn had stood out starkly against her skin. He'd reached to touch and assess before thinking.
Now, as he stalked the six dozen or so city blocks back to the decrepit side of town and the abandoned Nehi factory-turned apartment building that he called his home, he cursed under his breath, berating himself for even making the move toward her. Of course she didn't want you to touch her, you stupid fuck! Not just because of the mask, though that was reason enough; either she thought him a freak or some lunatic for wearing such a thing on the street in broad daylight. But because a woman like her wouldn't appreciate a complete stranger putting his hands on her, especially a stranger who was obviously a homeless or very nearly homeless street musician making his money off of the hand-outs of others. Her jacket had been of high quality material and cut, as were the cream-colored slacks and soft blue sweater she'd been wearing underneath it. Someone like her didn't want someone like him touching her.
Never had he willingly touched or attempted to touch another since he'd been released from the rehabilitation clinic. He didn't want to touch anyone and didn't want anyone to touch him. After some of the things that had gone on inside that P.O.W. camp...
He shoved that away, out of his mind, before he could think about it too much and let it take him into the depths of depression again.
But why, why today, why her? Why had he pushed himself past that restrictive barrier and crossed that street to check on someone he didn't know from Adam and Eve and actually want to touch her?
Because you're too much of a fucking gentleman, DeLauter, that's why.
Well, he thought as he shoved the key into the single lock on the peeling door of his apartment on the seventh floor, no more. He'd be damned if he'd show someone else concern again. Especially someone like that little rose under glass. He wasn't good enough to touch someone like her.
The little, rickety card table that served as a work space, a dining table, and a writing desk was cleared of the handful of staff-lined paper there that he'd carefully drawn out himself with pencil and ruler and neatly tucked away back with his other music situated in a folder on top of the century old piano he'd bought for ten dollars at a rummage sale down the street. It had taken hours to get that thing up the stairs and he'd nearly been trembling with exhaustion by the time it had found its home in the small room. Pulling up a seat at the solitary chair, he flipped open the locks upon the violin case and lifted it free. Long fingers dipped within the compartment that supported the neck and he pulled loose a rather worn cloth and a small bottle of oil. Spreading a dish towel out upon the surface of the table, Erik placed the violin upon it, then uncapped the bottle and dipped the cloth within, tipping both about to faintly wet the rag.
He bent over the table to begin gently waxing away the fingerprints and any harmful particles the downtown Indianapolis air might have deposited upon its surface, when he heard the shift of coins in his pocket. He needed to get those tucked away first...
But after shrugging off the trench and hanging it on the coat rack listing precariously to one side, then retying back his hair to fall between his shoulders, he remembered that the coins striking each other merrily in his jeans pocket only added up to a grand total of a buck-fifty.
"God damn it..."
If he hadn't crossed that street to check on that princess' precious little burn, then he would probably have a hell of a lot more money earned today than just that pitiful amount.
Or if he hadn't turned tail and run.
"Too much of a fucking gentleman."
With a heavy, worn and frustrated sigh, he settled back down at the table and began carefully waxing the violin.
"Mom, I want Beefaroni and a cheese toastie."
Kristen stilled in the open door of the refrigerator, closed her eyes, exhaled slowly, and counted to ten backwards.
"Seth," she began patiently, "you had a cheese toastie and Beefaroni last night. I really do think you need to at least have some vegetables tonight."
"Vegetables suck."
"No, make that you are going to have some vegetables tonight." With a determined set to her shoulders, she bent and pulled a bundle of carrots, an onion, a stalk of celery, and a bottle of tomato juice out, bumped the fridge door closed with her hip, then turned and faced her son, whose face was downright belligerent; black brows furrowed over sea-green eyes, a shade or two lighter than hers.
Amusing how those expressive eyes betrayed his horror as she also added a can of corn, a few red potatoes, and a bag of frozen peas to the counter top as well.
"Oh shit. Vegetable soup?"
"Seth Michael Dresden!"
He had the good grace to flush guiltily then quickly look down to his untied Adidas cross-trainers.
"Sorry, Mom."
She cast a look at him through her lashes as she laid out the produce on a cutting board and began shucking off the papery layers of the onion, flicking them into the sink to be later consumed by the garbage disposal. It was hard to miss the roll of his eyes or the disappointed droop of his thin shoulders. With a soft laugh, she ran the peeled onion under the faucet and set it aside to be diced and started unbanding the bundle of carrots, catching them in the spray as well. Okay, maybe since he had brought home an impressive A- on that science fair project she could compromise a bit. "And...maybe a cheese toastie to go with it?"
It never failed to bring a warm glow of pleasure through her to see her son's eyes light up, a gap toothed smile bloom on his freckled features, then that careless shrug and little smirk to follow, as if he was just too cool to get excited.
"S'cool." And with that, he pushed away from the counter, leaving her preparing the dreaded vegetables, and loped away, so tall for a boy his age. So thin, no matter how much she fed him and no matter how he ate that food with gusto. Long and lean. He took after his father in that department. But in every other aspect, he was Kristen made over. That simple fact pleased her to no end.
If you looked at the man who'd helped her conceive him – and often she felt that was all the help he gave – then looked at her son, there wasn't the slightest resemblance. He had her glossy black hair, but straight rather than curly, her blue-green eyes, but more green than blue, and even those damned freckles she'd never been able to Oil of Olay away. He had her wide mouth – and smart enough to make good use of that mouth, and silly enough to let it get him in trouble too – her slightly crooked nose, and he got a bad case of the hiccups when he cried or got too excited.
She'd been one day past seventeen the day they laid him in her arms, red, wiggling, little face scrunched up into a grimace, and setting up an unholy, shrieking rucus. Six pounds, four ounces, and small enough to fit right into the crook of her arm. He'd been so unreal to her until that point, so much just a silent presence that weighed heavily upon her heart because that little life inside her had been the reason why the boy she'd thought she loved with every fibre of her being had up and left her, four stuttered words of "I can't do this," and a football scholarship to Notre Dame. He'd wanted to be free and as much as he'd promised her he loved her and the baby that they'd made together from a night of young, spirited passion in the backseat of his Monte Carlo, it just hadn't been enough to keep him there.
He called on September 18 every year like clockwork, told his son 'Happy Birthday', sent the expected card and check on that occasion, and every Christmas a package filled with all the things that a young boy liked to have, but with not a hint of the love that should have existed for that young boy. Kristen received child support checks without fail; Raymond had been young and scared, but he didn't shirk his responsibility.
He just liked to forget that he had child when he wasn't forced to remember.
Well, it was his loss. Seth was a beautiful, wonderful child. He was a little rough around the edges, always would be, but what healthy young boy wasn't? He was...everything to her. He was her world, her reason for living.
As she emptied the bottle of V-8 into the bubbling kettle of water and began adding the cubed, diced, and defrosted vegetables she'd prepared, then shaking in just enough seasoning to appeal to her son's juvenile palette, she realized that she almost...pitied Ray.
He'd never held his newborn child, touched that soft, downy skin of such a fresh, innocent little life, marveled at the unbelievably tiny fingernails and eyebrows. He hadn't been there to hear that first word, see that first step, or watch a little gleaming raven haired head cross that tiny podium when he'd graduated kindergarten. He had missed the late night feedings, diaper changes, and hours spent agonizing when Seth ran his first fever and Kristen had bawled right along with her sick baby. He had missed that hour before bedtime, when her boy was clean and fresh from his bath, wrapped in his pajamas, snuggled against her side in his little twin bed, and heavy with the oncoming of sleep as she read to him, his soft hair nestled under her jaw. Something that was more precious to her than anything.
Yes, she pitied Ray Chesney for his distance from his son. Pitied him that he'd even protested the giving of his name to Seth, because if he became a NFL recruit, he didn't want any "legalities" keeping him down.
It was alright, she mused to herself as she set out thick slices of Texas Toast and smeared them with butter for the toasties. They'd made it fine, just Seth and her. First in that little one bedroom apartment as she'd worked her way through an MBA and Library Science degree during the day, her mother sitting for the baby, then, once she'd graduated and got the grant for Turn the Page, the three bedroom, white and blue shuttered little colonial in historic, lovely Lockerbie that suited them just right. Mainly a downtown community for artists, musicians, and gay couples, the neighborhood had held open welcoming arms to her and her son, even if they didn't quite fit in. Yet somehow...they did.
That heaviness in her heart had become her deepest and greatest joy.
With the hot kettle of soup placed on a trivet and a plate of freshly grilled cheese toasties set on the dining room table, she wiped off her hands on the legs of the jeans she'd changed into and moved into the living room, following the sounds of swords clanging, men grunting, and points being tallied up based upon how much blood was shed. Seth and his Playstation. Devoted and passionate was that relationship.
She knocked on the doorframe.
"Dinner. Slaughter then save, baby. You've got homework to finish up after you eat."
"Yeah, yeah, I know." Grunting the words, he lopped off one last Samurai's head, then saved his progress and hopped up. As he passed her, he raised baleful green eyes to her. "Did you really make vegetable soup?"
"Yes."
"Can I just eat a toastie?"
"Not a chance, bubba."
Later, after night had fallen, Seth had taken a bath and Kristen had read the latest chapter of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire to him, then kissed him goodnight, she checked to make sure the kitchen was once again spotless. It was more than that, it gleamed. She just couldn't tolerate messiness or filth.
Swiping up her own book, a particular Maeve Binchy that she'd begun last night and hadn't been able to put down, she turned off most of the lamps, save for a small night light plugged into the hallway for Seth's benefit, then moved eagerly to the little painted screen door that led to her second floor balcony. By the frame sat a large basket that held a pile of quilts and she gathered a particularly thick, soft one into her arms and headed out.
The night was chilly, a sharp October bite, but it didn't bother her as she settled into the wide, ancient wicker chair and drew her legs up, the quilt wrapped snugly about her shoulders and body. She briefly longed for a cup of hot chocolate, but...mmno, it was simply too perfect a comfort she'd achieved to get up again. She flipped open her book to page 157 where she'd left off, then simply stilled, and tilted her eyes up to the sky overhead.
Black, lit with a thousand stars and washed the pale gold of the city lights, and framed by the other roofs about her, it was her little patch of heaven. A gentle breeze struck up, ruffled her hair and the string of pale gold Christmas lights that she and one of her neighbor's kept strung between their houses all year round and she smiled. Her eyes drifted over and across the city.
Lockerbie lay on the very edges of what could be considered the respectable section of the city. Directly across the from the small, old community lay the more decrepit side of town. But from where Kristen sat, the old Nehi Factory was a large shadow against the black of the horizon and lit by a hundred small rectangles of light of the apartments that now filled it, with the skyscrapers and display of the heart of Indianapolis behind it. So close...so close she could hear their televisions over the ebb and flow of conversation in the street below her and the houses next to her.
She could hear it...and it made her smile. Someone in that old factory had their window open and was watching Edward Scissorhands. She could hear the lifted voices of the Ice Dance playing, and closing her eyes, she could almost see Winona Ryder spinning in slow circles as ice fell in delicate flakes all about her.
The music settled over her and she slowly reopened her eyes and looked back up to the expanse of night and stars overhead. Curled up like this, the warmth of her own handmade quilt wrapped about her, her son sleeping snugly in his bed, and the people who inhabited this ciry living, loving, and just...being about her...she thought that, in that moment, listening to the haunting score, that she was happy. Wonderfully happy.
And the thought of him crept in unexpected.
Gray eyes flashing with pain for one brief moment, the wind tugging at his hair about his shoulders, the tense line of his body as he'd left her standing there, a misunderstanding between two strangers...
She hadn't meant to hurt him.
She wondered, now, where he was. Was he safe, warm, fed?
Was he happy?
Behind him, the movie played, and the familiar soprano voices of the Ice Dance lifted over him and out the window where he stood. A half-eaten bowl of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom was cupped in one hand, a triangle of buttered toast in the other. Leaning against the peeling ledge, he dipped a corner into the soup, took a bite, then sighed faintly, watching a small string of Christmas lights sway in the gentle bite of the October night air.
He often stood here, the window open, no matter how cold it was and watched those lights sway. For some reason they were almost...comforting. All year round they hung there, moving, shimmering gently in the darkness, a whimsical touch against the more dignified facades of the Lockerbie historic houses. Sometimes he liked to think about who might live there. What kind of person would they be, that they would string those lights there and keep them up, no matter the season or the temperature? Someone who loved simple beauty he imagined. Someone who appreciated things and took nothing for granted.
Someone like him? It had been a damned long time since he'd taken anything for granted, that was certain.
A rough breeze struck up, tugged some strands of his hair loose from the tail down his back and they whipped about his face. The lights across the way went wildly swaying.
Her face was in his mind before he even realized he'd let her in. That moment of slight confusion right before he'd turned away from her and stalked across the street. What had she truly expected? That he would stand there and watch her make pithy excuses of why she didn't want his hands on her?
But yet...he wondered about her. Where was she tonight? Was she loved, appreciated, taken care of?
Was she happy?
