A/N: Sorry it took me so long to post this second chapter. Besides working on this special edition Halloween Flash Fic Challenge, I've also recently bought a new car (I hate that process) and have been cheering my beloved Red Sox into the World Series. (Can I hear it for the rookies? ) Anyway, before we get to the next chapter, I have a couple of comments for you. First of all, I'm not going to reveal the identity of Jason's wife for a while. Not only does this add to the mystery, but I don't want her to be judged by any preconceived notions you may have about her. Secondly, I'm so excited for Elizabeth's character in this story, so I'm thrilled you're intrigued her personality and background, too. Thanks for reading and responding, and I hope you enjoy this chapter as well.
Charlynn
Chapter Two
The Sincerest Form of Flattery
Although Elizabeth Webber did not consider herself a real artist, she was what she herself might call an art enthusiast, a person who dabbled in various mediums for the sheer pleasure of dabbling. However, unlike the other painters she was associated with due to her job, she did not look for inspiration in the usual places. Things of beauty, things of reverence, things of grace and nostalgia could not hold her interest long enough for the petite brunette to complete a quick sketch. Instead, she preferred her subjects to be real, hard working, and rough around the edges. The more flaws they had, the more vices, the better. After all, she was a firm believer in the idea that those rather unsavory qualities a person tended to hide from their peers were the ones that truly made them interesting.
And that was the very reason why she found herself in Jake's bar later that evening instead of resting up in her room or searching the net for apartments. Bored and needing to relax and lose herself in her art, she was perched in a dark and obscure corner at the back of the smoky bar. Nursing a beer, she watched the various dock laborers and factory workers as they played pool, threw darts, or simply argued sports. Loud or quiet, tall or short, hefty or frail, they all interested her, because she knew each and every person there hid a story under their rough exterior, a story she could imagine for herself and bring to life on canvas.
With so many options, she sat, pencil tip sharpened and positioned just above the crisp white paper of her sketchbook, trying to determine who her subject would be for the evening. Just as she had it narrowed down between a silently brooding, obviously married ship captain who was simply sitting in his booth and staring into his mug of beer as if it held the answers to the universe and a fresh faced youth who was seemingly out with the guys from work for the first time, a newcomer sauntered into the bar. Elizabeth didn't even have to look at the man to realize he didn't belong at the waterfront establishment; the immediate hush that fell upon the crowd and the palpable shift in the atmosphere alerted her to a presence unfamiliar to the local dive, and, immediately, she was curious.
"Excuse me," the tall, blonde, apparent professional greeted the bartender. As soon as the stranger uttered those two words, the no-nonsense woman behind the counter started to smirk. "May I please have something to drink?"
"You have money?" The man wearing the formal clothes and attracting all sorts of attention he obviously did not need nodded his head profusely. "Then you can have anything you want," the bartender agreed. "What can I getcha?"
And, just like that, the newcomer's bravado and confidence evaporated. "Well, I really don't know. What do people normally order when they want to get drunk?"
"That depends upon their taste."
The recently arrived customer thought on that for several moments, and, during that time, Elizabeth took the opportunity to really observe him. His hair was well-groomed, recently trimmed, his face, though soft from a lack of exposure to the natural elements, did bear lines of stress and worry, and his features were decidedly aristocratic in nature. Piercing blue eyes drew her attention to his expressive gaze, a gaze that bespoke of frustration, pain, and anger, but it didn't remain there long. Instead, she became aware of his nose, slightly crooked probably from a childhood break, his lips, rather full for a man's and definitely enticing, and his jaw, strong and simply begging for attention. From there, she noticed his muscular frame – the man was built, and he knew it. From his broad shoulders, to his washboard flat stomach, to his corded and powerful thighs, just looking at him caused attraction to pique her interest and send waves of desire coursing through her.
The clearing of the stranger's throat brought her attention back to his conversation with the bartender. "Do you happen to know A.J. Quartermaine?"
"Of course I do," the woman the accountant had learned earlier that evening was named Jake replied. "Any establishment within a fifty mile radius of Port Charles that serves alcohol knows A.J. Quartermaine." Becoming suspicious, the blonde narrowed her gaze towards her customer. "Why do you ask?"
"Just give me whatever he would order, and make it a large, please."
There were snickers up and down the bar, and the proprietor shook her head in complete disbelief. "You don't order a drink like that. Quartermaine drinks straight vodka. Most of the time he just buys an entire bottle and disappears into a corner booth to be by himself."
"I'll take it," the new arrival stated, reaching for and pulling out his wallet before Jake could argue. "Do you have change for a hundred?"
Now that inquiry definitely made the others in the bar turn and stare at the obviously wealthy man. At that moment, Elizabeth knew he was in trouble, and damn it if she didn't feel the need to help the clueless guy out.
"Are you sure that's what you want," the bartender asked him one last time. "I'm pretty sure you don't do this a lot, and not too many people can drink as much as A.J. Quartermaine can and still be upright by the end of the night."
"I'll be alright," the stranger assured her, handing her the previously mention one hundred dollar bill. "Keep the change…for your troubles," he suggested before taking possession of his purchased bottle of liquor and pivoting around to search through the haze always present at the dive bar to locate an empty table. Before he could take a step away from the counter though, the hustlers were upon him.
Standing, Elizabeth threw her sketchbook down, huffed in impatience, and slowly made her way across the dusty wooden floor. She could hear men on either side of the blonde offering to play him at pool, at darts, to help him pick the ponies for the race later that evening. When the newcomer started to turn the men and their oh so generous offers down, the dock laborers and the factory workers started to get mad, to push the wealthy patron around, to threaten him, and that's when she made her move.
"I think I saw that man's picture in the paper a couple of weeks ago," she whispered to a brute, there really was no other word to describe him, she knew Sonny employed at one of his lakefront warehouses. "I think he's an undercover cop."
Her word of warning passed through the crowd in mere seconds, and, as the horde dispersed back to their previous activities, she received more than one nod of acceptance and many smiles of appreciation. Satisfied the stranger was safe…for the moment, she approached him, glaring, and grabbed hold of his arm, pulling him back to her table.
"What the hell do you think you're doing coming here dressed like that, claiming to know one of the richest men in the state, and tossing around Ben Franklins as if you used them to line the walls of your attic?"
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you…or anyone else, for that matter, but what exactly did I do wrong? This is a public place, so I have just as much right to be here as you or anyone else does."
"Of course you have a right to be here," she snapped, collapsing down upon her seat with a huff of aggravation, "but that doesn't mean you need to exercise said right. The men who come here like this place because they can escape from guys like you."
"Guys like me?"
"Rich guys, the ones who are in charge and keeping them down, the elite," Elizabeth explained.
Before her eyes, the newly arrived blonde crumbled. Without warning, he opened the seal to the bottle of vodka he had purchased, unscrewed the cap, and took a large, cough inducing gulp of the fiery liquid. "I'm sorry," he apologized once again.
"It's alright, quit apologizing already. I don't want you sorry; I just want you to think the next time before you do something stupid like coming to Jake's dressed in Armani."
After several deep, stomach burning drinks of liquid courage, he started talking. "You don't look like you belong here either."
"Yeah, well, I do, and, even if I didn't," she dismissed his concerns, "the guys here know not to mess with me."
He chuckled at that. After she went out of her way to save his ass, he had the gall to laugh at her. Annoyed with the stranger's reaction to her comment, she glowered at him. "What," he finally asked after regaining his ability to speak, "do you have a protector or something?"
"Yeah, I do, two protectors actually. Their names are Smith and Wesson. Would you like to meet them?"
The blonde's eyes widened at her statement. "You…carry a gun?"
Elizabeth nodded. "Fuck American Express. I never leave home with my 9MM."
"Do you have it now?"
"It's tucked into the back of my pants, already loaded."
The out of place patron digested that information while drinking his vodka at a continual pace, quickly getting himself inebriated. Realizing he was done talking for the moment, she went back to her sketch, finally deciding to use the stranger across from her as her subject for the evening. He was so lost in his own thoughts, he never noticed her intense scrutiny. Finally, after half of the bottle was finished and forty-five minutes had passed, he started speaking again.
"Do you ever feel as if no one understands you?" She nodded, and the gesture seemed to appease him. "Me, too," he mourned, slouching down in his seat. "I go to work, I do everything they tell me to do, never once even thinking about fighting their wishes, but it's never enough; I'm never enough. When do I get to make my own decisions? When do I get to decide what's best for me?"
"Most people reach that stage in their lives when they turn eighteen," the brunette mumbled under her breath.
"Not me," the tall, muscular man across from her lamented. He had heard her sarcastic response, but, apparently, the sarcasm was lost upon him. "When I was eighteen, I started college. I went to the school my parents picked out for me, I majored in the field they chose for me, and I even dated girls they deemed appropriate and suitable for a man of my reputation and breeding."
"Sounds like you like to live life on the edge," Elizabeth taunted, never once looking up from her sketch as she added in the various nuances and imperfections that dotted the stranger's faces, making sure she included every blemish, every scar, every stress induced line.
"I hate what I've become, whom I've become."
Now that made her glance up to meet his unsteady, glassy gaze. "Listen," she directed, tossing aside her sketchbook. "I get where you're coming from, but no one made you stay; no one forced you to do as your family wanted. Is it hard to break free from their control, absolutely, but, if I can do it, so can you."
"How?"
The accountant shrugged, wrinkling her brow and tossing up her small hands in disappointment. "I don't know. Everybody's different; everybody has to find their own way out. Me, I just left," she shared, surprising herself with the level of candor she was displaying in front of a man she had never met before and, in all likelihood, would never see again. "As soon as I turned eighteen, I packed by bags, bought a bus ticket that would take me as far away from my family as I could get, and I made a new life for myself. Was it hard? Did I wake up some days and think that I would never make it? You can bet your damn ass I did, but I never gave up, I never gave in, and I sure as hell never went crawling back to Mommy and Daddy. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing me fail. And, now, nine years later, here I am – successful, independent, and out from underneath my family's controlling thumb."
"I could do that," he exclaimed excitedly, standing up and pushing his chair back in one uncoordinated movement.
"Of course you can," Elizabeth agreed with him.
"And I'm going to start now," the stranger stated with unwavering conviction. He managed to take just one step away from their table before he started to trip over his own feet.
"God damn it," the younger woman swore, rushing to stand and wrapping a steadying arm around the blue eyed, blonde man.
"What, what is," he demanded to know, his concerned gaze meeting hers. "Did your gun go off?"
"No," she reassured him. Chastising herself for getting into the mess she was currently drowning in, she helped the wealthy man to the back stairs. "Don't you think you would have heard it if my gun had gone off?"
"Not if you had a quieter…thingy attached to it."
"It's called a silencer."
"Oh," the stranger mumbled while mulling over her correction. "Same difference," he finally shrugged as they ascended the stairs several moments later. It wasn't until they reached the second story, that he inquired, "where are we going?"
"You're going to sleep, and I'm going to hit my head against the wall a few hundred times," Elizabeth supplied. "Does that sound good to you?"
"Sleep, oh yeah," he groaned in appreciation, quickening his steps. "That sounds really, really nice. Man," he confided, "I'm exhausted. I feel as if I could sleep for a week."
"Try staying in my bed that long and I'll shoot your lazy ass to wake you up."
Evidently, the drunken man didn't hear her. "You're pretty awesome, do you know that?" Helping him through her doorway and into the bed, Elizabeth didn't answer, and he finally stopped talking. The lights were turned off, the covers drawn up over the stranger, and she was in the armchair watching the night sky when the stranger's voice captured her attention once again. "Be careful."
"I already told you; I can take care of myself."
"No," he argued with her, "with your head. Don't hit it too hard. I'm a doctor, so I know these things."
"Thanks for the advice," Elizabeth blandly offered.
Within moments, the physician was snoring in her bed, passed out drunk, while she silently raged to herself. She knew better than to get involved in someone else's life, to actually show compassion, but did she listen to her own instincts? Of course not! And where did her rather unfortunate sympathy land her? With a wealthy, family obsessed doctor – the exact thing she was trying to escape from.
Elizabeth Webber could remember growing up as a child and believing that turning thirty would be just about the worst thing ever. To five year old Lizzie, thirty meant old, boring, and dull, but, as the adult version of Lizzie quickly approached the start of her forth decade, the accountant realized life was still full of surprises and new experiences. Staid she was most definitely not.
Take, for example, that morning. After a near restless night in an old arm chair, she awoke at six-thirty a.m. on the dot, as always, to the horrible sight of a drunken stranger sleeping in her bed, and the worst part was that she had not even gotten lucky out of the situation. She had showered, dressed, and prepared for the day ahead of her, while, all the while, contemplating the best way to wake the slumbering giant.
Clearing her throat in an annoyed manner didn't faze him at all, despite the fact that her room was as silent as a funeral parlor while it was closed. (How she knew that fact, well, to put it bluntly, working for the mafia had both its advantages and its disadvantages. This particular experience belonged in the latter category.)
Next, she tried to kick the bed, hoping the jarring movement would rouse the blonde who, upon closer inspection, she realized had drooled all over her new pillow, but all it did was make him roll over onto his stomach, emit a loud snore, and become even more difficult to wake.
Elizabeth, at that point, sat back down in her uncomfortable recliner and started talking at a rather loud pitch, pleading with and then eventually yelling at the wealthy doctor to get his lethargic ass out of her bed. Either the vodka from the night before had impaired his hearing or she was losing her touch, because he never budged. Desperate, she contemplated the childish yet ultimately fun trick involving shaving cream, a feather, and near comatose victim but decided against it because she really didn't want to wash her sheets again for the second time in as many days.
With nothing else to do, she stood up, filled the glass she kept by her bedside with cold water, and proceeded to dump it upon her unwelcome guest's face. It worked, the stranger got up, and, before she could even offer an insincere apology for her rude actions, he was firmly ensconced in her bathroom and showering, so she slipped out of the rented room to find them some food. Despite his stomach's protests, she knew the doctor would need food to help get him through the day. After all, there was still a ton of vodka in his system that needed absorbed, and, even if he didn't need sustenance, she was starving and in the mood for a steak sandwich. Fifteen minutes later and mission accomplished, the brunette returned to find her friend/pain in the ass redressed in his clothes from the night before and waiting for her.
"You didn't have an extra toothbrush."
"I live above a bar. What the hell were you expecting?" After a silent beat, she cocked her head towards him in an accusing manner. "You didn't use mine, did you?"
"No, I put some toothpaste on my finger and did the best I could with that. I'll really brush them later at home before I go into work."
"No need."
She could tell by the grimace on his face that he was more than hung over; he was also confused by her statement. "What do you mean? Of course I have to go to work."
"Actually, no, you don't," Elizabeth contended, handing him his sandwich. "Quick, eat up before it gets cold." Taking a bite of her own, she chewed for a moment before continuing. "While you were showering, I checked the contacts list in your phone, dialed the one labeled work, and called you off for the day."
"You did what?"
"Listen, I know that bathroom has bad ventilation so the mirror gets pretty steamed over, but surely you got a good look at yourself at one point while you were in there. You look like hell, and, after living it up like a Russian last night, you probably feel like hell, too. Besides, didn't you decide to change your life?"
"I did?"
"Yeah," she nodded in response while taking another bite. The accountant wasn't going to say more than that though, because, if he couldn't remember their conversation and, more importantly, her part in it from the night before, that was perfectly alright in her book.
Apparently satisfied with her response, the doctor changed the subject. Holding up his sandwich, he asked, "what is this?"
"It's a steak sandwich. Most places won't sell them this early in the morning, but, before I got here, I had my boss arrange for it with one of the local delis. Go ahead," she encouraged him, "try it. I know it's not gourmet or anything, but it has all your important food groups – meat, carbs, vegetables, dairy, and grease. Oh," she added after second thought, reaching into her coat pocket and tossing him a candy bar. "I got us dessert, too."
The man was flabbergasted, practically speechless. "What time is it? How late did I sleep?"
Elizabeth glanced at her watch. "It's a quarter to eight, which means, if I want to be at work on time, you need to hurry your ass up."
"At night?"
"What do you mean at night," she questioned his inquiry. "Are you still drunk?"
"No, I'm not still drunk. On death's door, I think, but not still drunk. What I meant was - is it a quarter to eight…as in p.m.?"
"Try a.m.."
"Oh." The stranger contemplated this for several seconds. "Then why the hell are we eating steak? Do you have something against breakfast?"
The accountant shrugged. "I don't like it." Finishing her sandwich, she tossed the wrappings in the trash before standing and gathering her things to leave again. "Are you always this chatty when you're hung over? I know that when I wake up after a bender, I usually try to remain as quiet as possible at least until the pain in my head is downgraded from a migraine to just a regular headache."
The wealthy blonde stood, fidgeted with his sandwich before finally deciding to simply hold on to it, and attempted to explain himself. "I'm just…this is all sort of new to me. I've never done this before."
"What, drink?"
"No, I've been drunk before. What I'm talking about is this." He motioned between them.
"Oh, well this," Elizabeth mimicked his gesture, "didn't happen. You stuck your foot in it, I bailed your dumb ass out of trouble, you got drunk, talked my freaking ear off all night, and then I dragged you up here last night to sleep it off while I took the chair."
"I'm sorry," he hastily apologized.
"What did I tell you last night?"
"Honestly," he told her, shrugging his shoulders in exasperation, "I have no idea."
"I don't want you sorry. Just…think before you act next time, alright?"
"I can do that," he agreed with a small grin. "As for helping me out, thank you, I owe you one."
"No, you don't," the brunette found herself, albeit unexpectedly, assuring him. "It was a new experience, a learning one," she reasoned. "If nothing else, I think that makes us even, …" She left the statement open ended, waiting for him to supply his name.
"Jason," the doctor answered, holding out his hand for her to shake, "Jason Quartermaine."
"Elizabeth Webber." Letting go of his hand, she motioned with her head towards the door, and they walked out of the room together. "So, I guess I'll see you around?"
"Maybe," he offered, "but I don't think I'll be coming back here anytime soon. A little bit of last night, I think the part before I started drinking, is starting to come back to me, and I'm not sure if this is the best bar in town for me to become a regular at."
"Probably not, especially since I made everyone think you were an undercover cop." He laughed at her comment. "But, if you ever need someone to talk to…or just listen, I'll be around, and there's always the back door."
As they approached the exit, they went in separate directions, Jason towards the front of the building where his car was parked and Elizabeth towards the back where her own was. "I'll keep that in mind," he promised, referring to her offer. "And thanks again."
"I'd say anytime, but," the accountant laughed, teasing him, "you know, I wouldn't mean it."
With one last chuckle, the blonde doctor disappeared, leaving her alone with her thoughts, and Elizabeth realized the scary thing was that she actually did kind of mean it. The idea was an unexpected and unwelcome complication.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Just as his hang over had started to go away, there was his wife to make it all come rushing back at him with a vengeance. As Jason stepped into his bedroom, the blonde he was married to was waiting for him, nail file in hand as she worked on her manicure. "I was going to change my clothes, but I guess that will have to wait until after you've finished lecturing me. What did I do this time?"
"You called off from work," she answered as if it was obvious.
"Actually, no I didn't. A friend of mine did it for me, because, unlike my wife, she was worried about me."
"Jason," his spouse beseeched him, "can we deal with one issue at a time, please. Focus. It's no wonder you're not more successful." Sighing impatiently, she continued. "Calling off does not reflect back positively upon your career, especially when you do so with little notice and when we're fighting an uphill battle because of your less than stellar specialty. If we want you to become chief…"
"But that's just it," Jason interrupted her. "How many times do I have to say it? I don't want to be chief of staff! As for not going into work today, trust me, my patients wouldn't want me there. I'm hung over and in no shape to be practicing medicine."
"No wonder you look like you just crawled out of a gutter." Wrinkling her nose, his wife pressed, "you smell like it, too."
"I showered."
"Well then the stench must be permanently embedded in your clothes. Have Reginald burn them," she instructed. Standing up, the blonde made her way towards his bedroom door.
"That's it," the pediatrician demanded. "You're not going to ask me where I've been or who I've been with?"
"Isn't it obvious," the mother of his only child asked rhetorically. "You went out, you got drunk, and you had a one night stand. It's not a novel occurrence, Jason, especially in our world. All I ask is that you be discreet. I don't want my reputation tarnished or your career hindered by your libido."
"So it wouldn't bother you if I had an affair?"
"Of course not. In fact, I'm quite surprised you haven't already. After all, how long has it been since we were actually intimate," his wife wondered out loud. "Four, five years?"
"Seven."
"Oh, that's right, since I found out I was pregnant with Riegel." With the recollection, the blonde laughed softly. "Don't be late for dinner, dear," she advised her husband as she made her way to leave his room. "The family missed you last night, so they'll expect you to be on time and to remain for the entire meal."
"Just to let you know," Jason stopped her. "I didn't cheat on you. I simply slept it off at a friend's place."
Slowly, his spouse turned around to regard him closely. "Maybe you haven't cheated on me yet," she accepted, "but you will eventually. It could be next week, next month, or it could even be years from now, but you will, and that's okay." With a piercing glare, she warned him, "just remember what I said about discretion. It's all I ask."
With that, she departed, closing the door softly behind her and leaving him alone. There were too many thoughts and even more questions swirling around in Jason's mind to allow him to focus on any one thing in particular, and, needing clarity, needing the understanding he had found in the company of one slightly rude and rather prickly brunette's presence, he picked up his cell phone and dialed for information.
"Jake's, please," he requested of the operator.
Moments later, a raspy female voice he recognized from the night before picked up the other line. "Yeah?"
"Is this Jake's?"
"The last time I checked," the bartender snapped through the phone lines, obviously in a rather sour mood. "What do you want?"
"Can I please speak with Elizabeth?"
"Webber?"
Surprising himself, the doctor antagonized the dive's owner. "Is there more than one Elizabeth who lives there?"
"She's not here," Jake barked out in response. "Do you want to leave her a message?"
"Can you just tell her that Jason called, please, and ask her to call me back?"
"Whatever you want."
The next thing he heard was the dial tone buzzing in his ear, so the blonde hung up his phone, placed it on his nightstand, and got undressed. Crawling into bed, he sighed in comfort and fell asleep almost immediately, a smile on his face for the first time in what felt like years.