Chapter 12

Cammie's POV

I've never regarded the stairs of the Pentagon with as much disgust as I do now. I shake my head vehemently and point towards the lift.

"No way am I descending down these stairs with these devils on my feet". I was crying as I put my foot into them.

"Fine," Bex retorts, shaking her curls from side to side. "I swear, one day, I'll get you walking down stairs with the elegance of a princess and the daintiness of a fairy."

I snort, as ladylike as possible, "fat chance." I whisper under my breath and earn a small laugh from Liz. It had taken around three and a half hours to get me into 'pristine' condition. My multiple bruises and cuts had been covered up by foundation and powder, and I have to give to credit to them. I do not look so bad. Underneath my short dress I have a semi-automatic pistol strapped to my thigh. I find it a necessity – I hate feeling useless in situations which concern myself. Looking back on the previous mission, I loathed the feeling of being useless, unable to defend myself, and looking on helplessly whilst Zach fought his way out of the situation for both of us.

Since the failed mission, I have been confined to the infirmary, and have only been discharged this afternoon. It was so nice to have a change of scenery from the stark white walls of the ward and the stern face of the nurse who routinely came into my room at ten minutes past the hour every six hours to deliver pain meds. I was allowed the occasional visitor, but only for an hour a day, and to see another face other than the nurse's was a blessing. I don't think she found my dry humour to her taste. I once commented that her outfit of a starched white cap and stiff black dress with a white apron on made her look like she belonged in a convent. I then proceeded to call her Mother Anne for the rest of the day. She deliberately cut my visiting hours short by ten minutes the following day. She was a joy to be around that is for sure.

My list of injuries is quite impressive, I'm actually quite awestruck by the fact that I have managed to hurt myself in all parts of my body. There isn't a single limb of mine that hasn't been attended to by the nurse. My most serious injury however is my shoulder. Because it has been pulled out of its socket twice in the past two weeks, it has been incredibly weak, and the muscles and nerves surrounding the joint have not yet settled back into their original formations. So when it was dislocated and popped back into place again, a bundle of my nerves were trapped and squashed between the socket and the bone itself, causing severe nerve damage. My shoulder had to be forcibly dislocated in order to release the neurons. Because of this, I can hardly feel my fingers, and I occasionally get shooting sensations of pain down my arm, often leaving me with cramps in my forearms. I am not going to lie, but it bloody hurts, and because it is damage to the nervous system, it is permanent. No amount of physiotherapy will be able to sort out this injury. The current dull ache will fade with time; it is only the product of severe stress to my shoulder, and the spasms will also become irregular and sparse. I have been given Vicodin prescription pills to help control the pain when it does occur. The orange plastic bottle containing my saviour pills are in my red clutch, just in case my arm spasms uncontrollably whilst we are out, and I am left in agony without any relief.

I don't know if any of the girls have been informed as to the lasting effects of my injuries. I don't know whether I want them to know that I am at an even more disadvantage to them, having already missed so many training days. Not to mention my obvious lack of talent and the fact that Zach seems to dislike me on a level which is incomprehensible. I am sure Zach has been informed of my hindrance, and as my supervising officer he must be raging. His trainee just went down the ranks of ability even further. But when we had our first conversation in over a week just earlier, he just shouted at me for being an incompetent fool for wanting to escape my prison for just one night. He didn't even throw a jab at the state of my arm.

Liz and I walk to the elevator nearby, so that we can reach the third stairwell to meet the guys. As I enter the elevator and the doors close behind us, Liz jumps forwards and wraps me up in a tight embrace, her cheek resting on my shoulder. I instantly wrap my arms around in return and squeeze gently, ignoring the dull ache that's present in my arm.

"You alright Liz?" I question, slightly dazed at this sudden show of affection from the normally quiet girl. I feel her nod, but no reply comes from her mouth. I can guess though. She is torn between the amazement and the danger of the position we are placed in. But knowing Liz, this excites her to no end. The chance, the opportunity that she has right now to reach her potential and stretch herself is unparalleled. The elevator doors open on us, and Liz releases me. I look up to see the boys with Bex and Macey waiting for us. Liz practically skips out of the elevator and stands in front of Jonas, and immediately starts conversing with him in hushed muted tones – a conversation obviously privy to themselves only. She has this beaming smile on her face, and I allow myself to smile a little at her obvious happiness. I walk out of the elevator; careful to avoid the gaps with my heels, otherwise a broken ankle would be added on to my list of injuries. I look up from the floor and I search for Zach, wanting to see if he kept his promise to join us tonight. Immediately, my eyes are drawn to a figure leaning against the wall. A white t-shirt is stretched across his chest, and pair of black jeans are low slung across his lean hips. A black leather jacket is thrown across his shoulders, draping over his frame and cradling his shoulders. His face is clean-shaven, giving him a boyish look with his copper hair messily atop of his head. A pair of piercing green eyes meet mine as I walk towards the group, the green darkening as they follow my every move.

"You move with the speed of a dying snail."

I shoot Zach a sickly sweet smile whilst waving a non-committal hand in his direction, "only for you Newbie." I turn away from Zach who has a smirk on his face, and walk down the corridor, eager to start an evening of fun.

Zach's POV

Alcohol. It is such a simple word for such a complicated substance. Chemistry tells us that it is an organic compound in which a hydroxyl functional group is bound to carbon atom of an alkyl. In real life, alcohol is a poison. It is a parasite. And tonight, Cammie was falling prey to it. I kept a close eye on her as she migrated from bar to dance floor, back and forth, with a filled glass of her choice of poison being quickly drained and then topped up. She danced like wildfire – attractive and unstoppable. Many a male had been attracted to her, and rightly so. Her white outfit made her stand out in a crowd of girls donning black and dark attire, eager to succumb to the dark activities of the night for either fun or escape. Her delicious curves clothed in white served as a beacon that drew in men wanting a taste. They danced, gyrated and touched her, but as soon as she left to go refill her glass, they were gone. I made sure of that. A glance filled with venom thrown their way ensured that they stayed away. They probably thought that she was mine, that I was fortunate to have that girl in white beside me.

Little do they know.

I find Cammie sitting at the wooden bar, her head resting on the surface, her eyes trained on the shot glass in front of her holding the clear liquid. It's water. I paid the barman to make sure that he serves her only water for the rest of the night and morning. He didn't need that much persuading when I showed him the paper notes stashed in my jean pocket.I take the barstool next to her, rapping my knuckles on the surface to alert her to my presence.

"I'm pretty sure it isn't going to magically turn into tequila if you keeps staring at it," I comment, watching as the sides of her reddened lips turn upwards in a small smile.

"I want more alcohol." She states, before she plants her heeled feet on the ground and stands up.

My arms instinctively reach out to steady her; I know her ability to trip over nothing is somewhat of a problem. I hate to see how much of a problem it is when she is thoroughly drunk. "No, Blondie," I retort. "You've had your fun. Let's not ruin a good evening by you becoming unconscious."

Her eyes steel and she throws me a look that clearly said that she didn't like to be doubted, and threw my arms away from her, "I can handle this."

I walk over to her and firmly grasp the tops of her forearms, "you're drunk," I growl into her face.

"Excellent powers of deduction Holmes, now let me the fuck go Zach." When I make no move to release her, she leans forward, so much so that I can feel her sweet breath on my face, tainted slightly by the bitterness of tequila. "I can look after myself, I have a gun on me."

She reaches for my hand and I let her take it. She pulls my hand, clasped in hers, down to her hip covered in lace. I finger the material there, all the while maintaining eye contact on her icy blue eyes. Her eyelashes flutter softly, either from the alcohol in her system, or from the featherlike touch of my fingers on her hip. Our hands travel lower still, until they reach a bump, concealed underneath her dress. I let go of her hand, and trace the strap that travels across her thigh until I feel the cold hard metal of a gun on the inside of her thigh.

"See?" Cammie whispers, her eyes darting down to my lips once and then up to meet my eyes. "I have it sorted."

I cannot help but look at her lips as she says this. Her tongue subconsciously flicks out to wet her lips, and I'm drawn to them glistening in the light flickering above us. I feel like I want to push her back against the wall and find out exactly how long it would take me to reach that damn gun that is holstered at her thigh. We maintain the close distance between us, but my hand travels back up her leg, over the curve of her hip, to rest on her waist, cupping the small of her back preventing her from moving away from me.

"Go Zach, dance, drink, have fun. Fall in love with a girl, forget the CIA. Be normal."

"Blondie, I don't want to be normal. And besides, my one love is myself."

"Ah," her eyes twinkle mischievously, "well at least you don't have to fear rejection."

"Oh, no, not necessarily. I reject myself sometimes just to keep it interesting of course."

A giggle escapes those lips of her again, and she meets my eyes again. Her mouth opens, to say something, but no sound comes out. So instead, I sweep down and capture those lips in mine. Instantly, her hands weave into my hair, tugging gently at the strands, and my other hand joins its pair at her waist, drawing her to me. Her lips are soft and pliant on mine, moving in tandem yet it seems like we are fighting for dominance. It's by no means a sweet kiss, more of a passion filled kiss, with high emotion, whether that be lust or anger I'm not too sure. But as I cup her soft cheek in my hand and slowly release her lips, I can feel my laboured breathing and I can already feel her absence, the cool air stinging where her warmth had been.

Cammie leans her forehead against mine, pushing gently, I'm guessing to keep her grounded. Our breaths mingle, and after a few seconds, I quickly move away from her, leaving her standing against the wall, her confused eyes following me as I join the fringes of the crowd. I don't look back, but instead, seek out a girl that had caught my eye earlier this evening. Within seconds, I see her dancing with her other scantily dressed friends, and I make my way to her. On her body is a pink top with a cleavage so low it's surprising I can't see her bellybutton. I quickly grasp her arm, and she whirls round to face me, her face hardening into a sultry smile as she looks me up and down.

"Hi stranger," she whispers as a fingernail trails down my chest.

Her voice grates my mind, and she leans in, much the way Cammie did a few seconds earlier. But her breath isn't sweet like hers, and her eyes aren't the piercing blue I've come to know. Before these thoughts take root in my mind, I press my lips ferociously against her, focusing on the feel of rough lips allowing me to take full control, submitting to me. I don't like it. But I continue to kiss the girl, my hands groping her curves and trailing up and down her body, appreciating the womanly form. My eyes flutter open for a second, and I look at the girl in front of me, with her eyes closed, and her hands loosely hanging around my neck. And then I flick my eyes over to the side and my heart sinks slightly at the sight that greets me standing just a few feet away.

I see blue.


A/N: I had so much fun writing this chapter - let me know what you think!

Also, I am still looking for a Beta for this fic, so if you think you would like to, please PM me :)