A Love Story

14)

Micaela didn't sleep at all that night, couldn't even bear to close her eyes. So she lay there, in her bed, feeling hateful and hurtful and heartless and wanting to curl up and die. Finally, feeling utterly depressed, she forced her way into the bathroom, peeling off her clothes and stepping into the shower, hissing at the heat.

Okay, apparently, JR brings out the bitch in me… but, god… Scrubbing up her hair, furious movements, she contemplated ways to try to fix this. After all, bastard or not, he had given her a place to sleep when her place had tried to bury her. Yet, she knew better than to think she could go up and pat him on the arm and chirp, "Gee, I'm sorry I attacked you through your dead kid but I feel real bad about it so how 'bout we go get a beer?"

Yeah, lovely, perfect, give him reason to throw me down a flight of stairs… With a groan, Micaela shook herself, turning to let the water hit her back and shoulders, running fingers through her hair as she considered other ways to apologize. Except that there was nothing she could say, no words because, the simple fact was, his son was laying at the bottom of some river somewhere, his bones broken and nothing she said or did could fix that horrible fact.

By the time she was in one of the massive terry robes, even bigger on her small frame than most people's, she had abandoned all hope of taking back what she had said. Wrapping up her tangled hair in a pink towel, she dropped into the bed, pulling the phone into her lap with a tired groan; holding phone between ear and shoulder, she quickly punched in Amy's number, desperately in need of a friend.

The younger woman picked up her side of the line at the third ring, answering with an inhumanly chipper, "Amy Cohen speaking!"

There was no fricking way Amy was human. No human woke up at four a.m. and fell into bed when she felt like it… without taking coffee on a 24/7 basis through an IV drip. And yet, here she was, psychotically chipper when Micaela wanted to dig her own grave.

Even over the line, Micaela could practically see her at her room in the Pine Cone, sitting at her desk and probably circling ads for apartments. Every spare cent she had went into her "witch jar", which, according to her, would one day create the best shop in Pennsylvania.

Micaela's answer on this morning was simple, although not very sweet. "I hate you and you psychotic chipperness."

Over the line, the only answer was Amy's laugh, which, as usual, ended in a snort and Micaela pinched the phone cord, wrapping it around a finger and studying the way it moved when she did. "What's the matter, Micaela? Didja sleep too long or not long enough?"

"Am I a bitch?"

Complete silence, silence that stretched on and on and… Micaela was nearly about to reach through the phone and strangle her with the cord when she finally sighed mockingly and answered, "Sorry, but that was too easy even for me."

"I'm being serious, Amy."

"Yeah… well, so am I. I'm not gonna sit here and say you're an innocent sweetie when you know better. We both know how nasty you can be, don't we?"

"Yeah, but—" Micaela hesitated, chose her words carefully. "I mean, I usually don't say anything too bad, right? I never said anything to you, right? Nothing too… painful?"

"Would I be talking to you if you had, Micaela?" Though the words were simple, the tone was not. Amy had taken long years of therapy to work through her shit and never put up with any more, not after Owen the wonder uncle… no, not Amy, not ever again. "Micaela what happened to make you go all self-pity?"

"I… I said something… God, Amy… I can't believe I said it… I mean, I know, at least a bit, what he's going through and…"

"Micaela, explain first and then mope… I don't understand… Could I have some help here please?"

"Chandler. JR Chandler? I threw his dead son in his face to piss him off—"

"Micaela… tell me you didn't—"

"I did, I did and all I can do is sit here and feel sorry for myself. It's disgusting, feeling sorry for myself, I mean, he ran out of here like a nut, what if, god forbid, what if he drove off some cliff?"

When Diana woke, the next morning, he was in the same place he had been the night before, stretched out on the couch. But the plate of food he'd promised to at least pick at lay untouched, sitting on the table. With a grimace, Diana picked it up, carrying it into the kitchen and tossing the old food out the back door.

Retying her robe over her nightgown, she cautiously glanced back in at the sleeping young man. Even in sleep, the lines around his mouth and eyes were there, etched in deep; if she ever got her hands on the person who had given him such an old face… Shaking her head, Diana turned her attention back to the stove, getting down her pan and pulling the pancake mix from the top cupboard.

Whether or not he resisted, she intended to have food waiting for him when he woke up.

Diana Cole usually enjoyed cooking because it gave her time to think; unfortunately, at times like this, it proved to be a double-edged sword and she found herself contemplating the things he'd said after Gina had left and Cady was asleep, sitting together on the couch, sipping tea.

It should have been strange, sitting there with someone she didn't know, except…

From the first moment their eyes had met, when he'd shaken her hand, she knew him, and, every time he caught her eyes… it was like electricity, an almost physical buzz beneath her skin, rooted in her bones, a something that made her blood pulse more strongly… and, even more stranger, was the fact at how natural it felt.

Despite her tries at getting more info from him, he'd refused, growing more and more still and, it was after she'd brushed his arm, that she'd felt the tightness there and she'd stopped her interrogations, letting her conversation wind down and offering him her bed. He'd refused, insisted on taking the couch, and, after a good fifteen minutes of bickering, she'd headed upstairs, making him promise to eat.

"Are you making pancakes?"

Diana raised her head, turned halfway to find herself under the intense gaze of her house-guest, in his slacks and his shirt, hair sticking up in every direction, sleep marks evident across his cheek. He looked ridiculous and she couldn't fight her smile. He smiled back and, rolling up his sleeves, shuffled forward—

And she was looking down at that little boy, in a pink apron so big that it dragged the ground, and huge cow gloves, no to mention patches of flour across his face, leaving two blue eyes to peer up at her in full pout mode. "Mom… I wanna help… lemme help… come on… I can cook too! Please, Mommy… please lemme, lemme, lemme help… You won't have to call the guys in the big red truck anymore, I promise—

And JR was standing at her side in the kitchen of the cabin, poking thoughtfully at the bowl of pancake mix, lifting the fork and letting it drip down, grinning childishly. When he caught her look, he cocked an eyebrow, letting out a drawl of, "You think I'm cute as a button, dontcha?"

She spun, choking on her laughter; a glance over her shoulder, catching his smirk, made it even harder and it took nearly a minute to clear away her laughter. When she turned back, he snatched the bowl away from her, shooting her a dirty look, and a grin before shooing her to the right, "I can do this, ya know. I can make pancakes… it's, like, the easiest thing in the world, right?"

At her snort, he began to ladle in the mix and she found herself reminded impeccably of a Parisian artist, even down to the blue eyes narrowed in concentration. Yet, when he stepped back, shooting her a triumphant hiss of "Hah!" she found that had indeed created the perfect pancakes. Still, this was her kitchen and, shooing him away with the spatula, she took back her proud throne.

When she turned back, with the plate perfectly made, including butter, she found herself confronted with an oversized five-year old, slouching down in his seat, looking up at her with a full dose of puppy eyes. Shaking her head, she set the plate in front of him with a laugh of "Straighten up before your back sticks like that."

And, like a good little—what, boy?—he obeyed, pulling the plate closer happily and she stood there, watching and smiling as he devoured her food, probably not even realizing that he had just fallen into her well-laid trap.

After hours of laying in her bed, tossing and turning, hearing words like "Nadda" and "Harff" in her mind, Kendall finally jumped out of her bed, slipped on her robe and left her home, striding barefoot across the cement to his place. She was surprised for a second to find that the lights were still on in his place, and she hesitated for a moment, before forcing herself forward.

Knocking once, twice sharply, she found the door opened immediately, and she slipped in, her eyes immediately settling on the large table filled with magazines. Words like "Kane" and "Cambias", "Las Vegas" and "Malone" jumped out at her and she felt some of her bravado drain away; realizing how thin her satin nightgown was, she self-consciously shut her robe, wishing it was one of her fluffy ones instead of this thin little thing. Tying it, she turned, watched as Zach, after locking the door, stepped up beside her and she looked away from him nervously.

In a pair of loose pants and a simple gray shirt, he was nonetheless piquing some of her most basic female instincts, which left her feeling irritated and annoyed. Stepping quickly back, she ignored the amused look he gave her as he nodded to the kitchen area. "Want something, Spunky?"

She shook her head, staring as he bent halfway to pick up one magazine and shake it in her direction, hazel eyes glittering in humor as he chuckled quietly under his breath. "'Erica Kane in Oakhaven.' Something I need to know, Kendall?"

Cringing, she rolled her shoulders, ignoring the picture. "My mother has reverted to her natural language of Erica-ese, Zach, nothing more, nothing less. And, no, don't get excited, she's with Jack right now."

"Erica-ese?" he repeated, giving her a mellow stare as he let the paper drop back down; why the Hell did he find this all so damn funny! "Your mother has her own language… why am I not surprised?"

"She'll get over it," Kendall snapped, feeling unnerved by the odd look he was giving her. "And, no, Jack will not come after you… What? What's that look for, mister!"

"What look? This look?" At her look, he sighed, rubbing his face as he lowered himself onto the couch, snorting at the way she flitted away. "Just… stop moving, would you… you're like some demented fairy…flitting here and there and everywhere… do you see this? You're making me rhyme."

"Gee," she drawled, with an extremely incensed air, "Dr. Seuss don't got nothing on you, Zach."

There was that look again, a narrowing of the eyes, a tightening of the jaw and neck, and his gaze once again refused to meet her own; scowling, she stepped forward and kicked slightly at his leg, demanding, "I'm gonna kick that stupid accent back to wherever the Hell it came from if you don't answer me, buddy!"

"Would you—Stop that! Kendall…" With a grunt, he threw out one hand, locking it around one delicate ankle at her next kick; she yelped, but he didn't release her… not even when he stood and she found herself in the painful position of hopping to keep her from falling on her ass.

Sputtering, she threw out a hand, finding herself being pushed backwards out of his apartment; it would have been a ridiculous sight for anybody watching, the odd image of a grown woman being steered by into her own home by the use of her own leg. Groaning, she smacked furiously at his hand as he propelled her in, and, with her startled shriek of "Hey!" she found herself shoved down onto her couch.

Before she could get back up, and beat him to death, he had left, closing the door behind him.

Harley Jacobs, age 27, was, in many ways, the quintessential showgirl… just not born one.

Harley'd been born yet another blonde, another useless lack of space, but, Frank had hired her, giving in to the edge of desperation in the young woman's voice. No, the only thing that she'd been born with that could help was the eyes… one blue, one green, both equally intense and gorgeous.

Frank had always loved the attention her gaze had gotten and had taken full advantage of it; in less than a month, Frank had hired a consultant, a woman who had yanked around Harley like a new doll, eyes glittering at the potential of the young woman.

Blonde had been too light, brown was too boring, and black… just the suggestion had caused the half-silicon woman to grimace, pinching the bridge of her nose unhappily. But the red… after weeks of running through colors, she'd found it, a perfect shade. Rich, intense red, and, as far as Harley was concerned, it was made for her.

An hour after Maxie had called her, Harley was on a flight to Pennsylvania, listening to her iPod, and ignoring the Chevy Chase movie playing, attempting to figure out how to get done with Maxie's shit and get back to Vegas… lord knew, Vegas had to be exciting than some little town in Pennsylvania, right?

Micaela, forced to listen to her best friend over the phone, chatting with Pine Valley's very own Derek Frye about if she had heard anything the night before, grew increasingly more worried about Amy. Especially when she realized that Amy the Aimless was no longer at the Pine Cone.

I should have stayed, should have kept her out of this mess, she thought darkly, knotting up some of her sheet in her fingers. Amy's a secretary, not some little Supergirl, and what if she gets up the creek?

Finally, Amy came back completely, only to find herself under verbal assault from the older woman. It took a good minute to break Micaela's tirade, achieving it with a series of "zip it"s, and Micaela regretted buying Amy the Austin Powers Special Edition last Christmas—er, Solstice, yeah, witches had Solstice, right?

"Look, I know what I'm doing, okay? Plus, this really nice guy Joe's given me a place to stay while we work together."

"You need to stay safe, Amy, okay? So, just… don't get in over your head… you're not, um, old enough."

"I'm twenty-two, Micaela! I've finished college, and, I'm a damn-good secretary!"

"Oh, yeah," Micaela noted dryly, "Nobody organizes paper-clips like you do. And, as for college, the only reason you've finished college is because you rushed your ass through school… you've got a weird brain, Amy, that the simple truth."

"It's called intelligence, Micaela. You don't have any… and, any you do have is nothing compared to mine," she paraded smugly. "I'm just… brilliant, see?"

"I don't know, I still think you just got a weird brain," Micaela joked lightly, voice teasing and she knew that, over the phone, Joe was probably being gifted with one of Amy's million-watt smiles, which, as far as Micaela was concerned, was the sole reason Amy had been born… to give people that smile.

"So, are you gonna go mope in a vat of mud with cucumbers?"

"I hate your psychic powers," Micaela muttered darkly, getting awarded with another laugh before the young woman left the line… and Micaela headed to the spa.