Disclaimer: I don't own Red Eye. This is for fun and my sanity.
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When she pushed open the door to the coffee shop, the late-morning rush was already in full swing. Lisa scanned the place for a sign of where he could be as she got in line. It wasn't a large place; where was he?
"Took a little time with our appearance, did we?" A faint rasp lay under the mocking words, less than she'd expected and yet enough to send a triumphant thrill through her. She turned to see Jackson standing beside her in line, holding two cups decorated with the green and white mermaid logo. He looked over the tops of his sunglasses at her, taking in her conservative-label jeans, the pale blue shell, the navy linen blazer she'd put on over it. "Though you seem to be a little more…sensible than before."
They stood gauging each other for a moment, then Lisa snorted. "I always have been."
"Really." His eyes said he believed otherwise, though he merely took a sip from one of the cups and held the other out for her. "Come on, let's walk and talk."
She eyed the drink warily, but accepted it and followed. Something told her he hadn't drugged it, or poisoned it, or whatever else his twisted mind might come up with, so she took a careful sip. Of course it was just how she liked it; two sugars, a bit of cream, a dark roast that she'd started drinking since moving away to Maryland. It disturbed her that Jackson had apparently been keeping tabs on her all this time.
They stepped out into the sunlight, strolling on the sidewalk without speaking. Today, Jackson wore a dark grey suit with a surprisingly hip lime-green shirt and no tie. His sunglasses were heavily tinted, but she could still feel his sharp gaze through them, knew he was taking in every detail of her appearance, her bearing, her mental state.
"You're depressed," he said at last, and she sent him a withering glare. It made him laugh. "Would you like to know how I can tell?"
"I'd rather not waste my time on things I already know." She grimaced as though the coffee was bitter. "Of course I'm depressed. My father was recently murdered, my mother is a wreck, I'm under stress from work, and on top of that, I now have to deal with you again. Not having a great month so far."
Jackson tossed his cup into a nearby trash can, suddenly serious. "I was sorry to hear about your father. I know you don't believe me," he added at her skeptical expression, "But it is true. Joe was a good man."
Lisa whirled on him, not caring if anyone saw or heard them. "Don't you dare call him Joe, Jackson. You used his life as leverage against me, threatened us, tried to kill him. You were not his friend. You were nothing to us." The rage burned in her, begged to be let loose upon him. "So don't you dare, Jackson. Don't you dare talk about my father like you knew him."
He endured the tirade with a dispassionate gaze, then leaned in close, braving her wrath and invading her personal space with ease. "Why don't we go talk somewhere less public, okay, Leese?" He stressed her name with the venom she remembered, the word filtered through his clenched teeth as if biting off each syllable at the end.
Instead of backing down, she replied with equal distaste, "Sure, Jack."
Was every conversation of theirs going to be half made up of taut silences and staring contests?
In the end, he backed down first, though he covered it well by casting a bored, "Come on," over his shoulder at her. He hailed a cab and held the door open for her, suddenly a gentleman with a sarcastic bent. "After you."
She wanted to hurl the coffee at him, but she thought better of it and threw her own cup away as well before getting into the car. She wondered if she was insane, if she had somehow managed to lose her mind during the course of her grief. She wanted nothing to do with him, she was sure. Nothing he had to say could possibly be of use to her, could it? Why bother contacting her after three years, if he had nothing to do with the slaying of her father?
Jackson slid into the seat beside her, all smiles once more. It was uncanny, how he could switch seamlessly from one emotion to another. His talents were wasted; he should be winning Oscars, not planning coups. He rattled off an address to the driver that Lisa didn't quite catch, then sat back, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He didn't look at her, choosing instead to watch the buildings and people slip by, block by city block.
Even at this time of the year, Miami was hot; at midday, the road ahead shimmered like water and the cars coming toward them seemed to melt up out of the ground. Lisa chewed on her lower lip as she watched the scenery change through her own window, the urban professionals, the retirees, the homeless, the drunks, the gang members who always looked to her as though they couldn't decide on how to dress, one pant leg up, one black shoe, hats askew. The normality of the city seemed somehow wrong and right all at once; strange how other peoples' lives went on even when hers was at a standstill.
"…eese. Leese. Lisa." Jackson's voice snapped her out of her daze. She turned to see him waiting with the door open, his hand outstretched to her. "We're here."
She ignored his hand and got out on her own. The cab pulled away, and she looked up at the building they'd stopped at. It stretched upward, dwarfing the surrounding towers despite being far from the tallest structure in the city. They seemed to have ended up in a quieter neighborhood somewhere far from the Lux Atlantic. "Where are we?" She asked, half to herself.
"My place," he said, grinning when she rounded on him once more. "Honestly, you are so paranoid. What reason do I have to hurt you?"
"What reason did you have to hurt me before?" she shot back.
He sobered. "That was business."
"To you." She shook her head. "I'm not going in there."
"I wasn't inviting you to." She barely caught the half-spoken, yet. He pointed across the street from where they stood, and now Lisa could see the small park and the water beyond. She felt her face grow warm, made herself shake off the feeling of embarrassment at her assumption.
As she followed him, watching for cars, she realized he'd been throwing her off balance from the moment he'd called her that morning. Lisa was sick of it, and she vowed not to let him do it again. Enough of her life had been taken up by trying to regain her footing that she would not let it go on like that anymore.
The park was more of a grassy lawn between two architectural monstrosities, holdovers from the 70s when their designers had been of the opinion that a utilitarian building needed a utilitarian shell. Some architect had managed to inject a bit of personality by adding a curved turret and a swooping stone staircase, but it felt like a frivolity, not an intrinsic part of the whole.
The park began at the base of the stairs and rolled down a steep hill, to end in a concrete-and-chain barrier. From there, it dropped off in a man-made cliff to a quiet, sandy beach. In a city where beachfront property was at a premium, Lisa was surprised to see any inch of coastline remain unused.
"We're going down there," Jackson said when they reached a break in the barrier. A tree that grew from the edge of the grass marked a set of dusty stairs leading down to the beach. Once more, Jackson offered his hand to help her down. Lisa was thankful that she'd worn jeans and low boots instead of a skirt and heels; living in Maryland had changed her style to the more sensible end of the spectrum, despite her claim that it had always been that way. She was able to avoid taking his hand again, though this time he seemed offended.
Good, she thought, Make him have to find his footing for once.
She brushed past and descended ahead of him. It was funny, how they were alone in such a secluded place, and yet she was not afraid, was not worried, though he was the most dangerous man she'd ever met. He could attack her, strangle her, kill her, and no one would know.
Where was her fear?
It was powerful, empowering, this realization that he did not have a hold over her, that he did not control her. Lisa was not afraid of Jackson Rippner. She might have said it aloud, except that he would hear and try to prove her wrong. It gave her an upper hand she hadn't realized she possessed. She was sure he was going to try his damnedest to make her fear him, though.
"Now," he said in his ruined voice from behind her, the roughness more pronounced as the timbre deepened, "Why don't we talk about why I called you?"
