Chapter Fourteen: Indifference (from the song by Pearl Jam)
"I can't help but notice that you don't have any luggage with you," Peter said as he unlocked the door to her suite.
Callie just shook her head, distracted.
"Well, being a bit of a ladies man myself, I do prepare for such occasions. You'll find some clothes in the closet and fresh personal items in the drawers. Feel free to make use of whatever you like. Everything is new – never been used, so you don't have to…worry."
She arched an eyebrow at him, but nodded her thanks. When she entered the suite, the first thing she did was look in the closet, wondering if there was something suitable for her to change into. She wanted to burn the clothes she wore. The best thing she did find that was closest to her size was a comfortable lounging suit made of thin cashmere. It was very expensive and felt absolutely wonderful. She went into her personal bathroom to change, and found everything she could ever need – hairbrush, cleansers, deodorant, toothbrush and paste, and even a small box containing various hair accessories.
When she came out, she was surprised to find that Peter was still there. He had been on the telephone, apparently, and was close to the window that overlooked the ocean, so she couldn't overhear his conversation. He said goodbye to whoever he was talking to and turned back to her graciously.
"You have to be starving," Peter said to her as he observed her sit down on the bed. "I didn't exactly have the menu on the jet at its top notch."
"The jet is yours?" Callie asked, rubbing her hand across her eyes. Why was she so tired all of a sudden? She had slept way to long to be this tired. But then again, sleeping too much had the same affects as not enough sleep.
Peter just gave her a modest smile. "Please, come. I'm unable to have anything but the best around me wherever I go, and I'm also an incurable showoff." He motioned out the door, and not knowing what else to do, Callie followed.
The galley was like the most expensive kitchen she had ever seen. There was a chef there, preparing coffee and sandwiches, but such sandwiches as even her father couldn't rival. The breads varied, all different types and shapes, perfectly cut pieces of lettuce and onion and tomato, Dijon mustard and meat of such quality that it practically melted on her tongue.
Considering she'd eaten breakfast about five hours ago, she didn't think she'd be so hungry, until she sat down at the small table with Peter and was presented a plate by the single server, a man with a boyish face who didn't meet their eyes. Once she started eating, she didn't stop until she realized she was going to explode.
Peter munched across from her, talking idly about things she had no idea. Talking about the chef and where he'd come from, talking about the boat, talking about his things. It was pleasant enough of a distraction from the continuous nagging voice in the back of her head, reminding her that Vincent had disappeared with that woman and hadn't re-emerged.
As if on cue, Cathy appeared in the doorway. She was dressed in a black silk robe that hung open and exposed the swell of one breast, an alluring look. She smiled at Peter, hardly acknowledged Callie's existence, and went right for a plate.
"You don't mind, dear, if I take some back to our suite, do you?" she asked Peter as she piled the sandwiches on.
"There's chilled champagne, too, if you wish," Peter said, seemingly oblivious to Callie's sudden discomfort. An olive was half-way to her mouth, forgotten, as she stared at the two of them, brooding.
Again, on cue, the server appeared, holding a silver bucket with the chilled champagne inside. "Shall I bring it to your room, ma'am?"
"No thanks, I shall do it." Cathy took the bucket in one arm and the plate in the other, and with a devious wink, she slinked back down the hall.
Callie watched her go. It was only when Peter cleared his throat that she drew her eyes back to him. She was amazed to see the man playing the innocent, looking at her with a gentile expression, as if the previous five minutes hadn't occurred.
"I'm sure as you know, Vincent isn't much of a conversationalist," he said. "At least, not when it comes to explaining what the hell is going on."
Callie arched an eyebrow. "How do you know him?"
"Oh, Vincent?" Peter looked mildly abashed. "Well, I'm not the proudest of my past, or his, but we were in foster care together."
This time Callie frowned. "Foster care?"
"In the same home, for a bit. It was a big place, neither one of us was much interested in the reigning social class, and we found that being together kept us safer than being alone." There was a grim look that flashed across his innocent features. "It was a very long time ago, I was fifteen, Vincent was seventeen."
Her frowned deepened. "You seem much younger than that."
His smile was a thousand watts. "My thanks, love. I do try to stay in good shape—"
"Don't let him pull that wool over your eyes," came Vincent's voice from the hallway as he entered the galley. Callie noted that he'd showered, and was now wearing only a pair of pajama bottoms, long silk things that did little to conceal his muscles underneath. A white towel hung around his neck and his chest was bare, and his hair had turned a few shades darker when it was wet. Callie couldn't help but note the amount of scars he had on his torso…"He's younger than me by a few years," Vincent went on, going to the fridge and pulling out two large bottles of water. "But he's a true believer in plastic surgery." Vincent shot the other man a look over his shoulder. "One of these days your skin is going to crack like old cement."
"If money can't buy happiness," Peter said, tossing back his head, "at least you can be unhappy in nicer surroundings. And look better in the process. Plastic surgery is making leaps and bounds in medical science. The skin hardly shines anymore." He touched the side of his face as if to demonstrate.
Callie frowned. "You'd never know it to look at you."
Peter shot Vincent a triumphant smile. Vincent came to the table, popped open a bottle of water, and just shook his head.
"I thought you and Cathy were eating in your room," Callie murmured.
"We are," Vincent said smoothly. "But she didn't have a third arm to carry the water. Got to keep hydrated." He winked at her, and she blushed and looked away, her food now forgotten, her stomach becoming an angry knot.
"Your friend was just asking me about our past, Vincent," Peter said.
"Our past?" Vincent replied with a cocked eyebrow. "Oh, you mean me keeping you from getting killed every night until your sixteenth birthday." Vincent turned to Callie, oblivious to her anger. "Peter is a true child prodigy, you know."
"Really?" In spite of herself, she was interested.
"Really. And completely without shame. Mastered the legal system and emancipated himself from the state when he was sixteen, same time as I got out. We went our separate ways for a while, but…business has a way of bringing old friends back together."
Callie swung shocked eyes to Peter. "So…does Vincent…work for you?" she asked tentatively.
Peter's eyes became guarded for a moment, but then the man gave a shrug. "I never dirty my hands with the details," he said dismissively. "I'm in business with so many people, sometimes I can't keep track."
Repulsed, Callie curled back into her chair, crossing her arms over abdomen.
"Yeah, like of how many times I've saved your life," Vincent muttered. "About a half-dozen times, I think is the current count."
"And thus, your free use of my various resources," Peter said.
"I really didn't expect to see you down here," Vincent said, stretching his back. Callie looked away before she could notice the ripple in his muscles.
"Well, you know how little I'm able to resist the charms of Bangkok," Peter returned with a smirk.
Vincent chuckled dryly. Turning to Callie, he said, "Peter is hopelessly attracted to any woman of Asian descent. And he's not particular, either. Japanese, Chinese, Vietnamese, Korean—"
"Although Thailand has the most beautiful variety, and the easiest systems of getting them," Peter jumped in.
"See what I mean?" Vincent said, picking up the other bottle of water and turning back to the hallway. "No shame."
"You going to sleep?" Peter asked.
Vincent shot him another wolfish grin, which Callie couldn't help but think was for her benefit. "Depends. At any rate, knock on my door when we reach Songkhla, okay?"
Peter nodded, touching two fingers to his forehead. Then he turned back to Callie. "And what of you? You know Vincent from—"
Callie just stared at him. "He works for you, and you don't know?"
Peter gave a little shrug, a bit more expressive than Vincent's little twitches. "Vincent doesn't like to tell me anything. I'd like to think he's protective of me, but I know better."
"So what do you do, Peter," Callie said after a pause, wanting to put some kind of conversation in the silence of the kitchen, "that you can afford your own jet, a yacht in the middle of the Gulf of Thailand, and your own personal hit man?"
"Stocks," Peter replied smartly.
"I thought you were in the legal field."
"No, no, that was simply a means to an end. I'm a bit of a wiz on the Stock Market. Speaking of which, I do have to make a few phone calls. Do you know your way back to your room?"
The thought of spending her time with Peter didn't exactly appeal to her, knowing what she knew now, but the thought of being alone was even less appealing. She bit her tongue, though, before she could say anything aloud. Damn her if she was going to show these people any throat. "Yes," she said miserably.
"Good. We'll be going for possibly another eight hours or so, it's at least five hundred miles across the gulf, it not a bit more. You might want to get some rest, take a shower, even wander around the deck. Make yourself at home." With a flash of white teeth, he was gone.
Callie sighed. She felt like a prisoner. Which was the strangest thing, because she was being treated with the kind of indifference that no captor would dare. Not that there was any way for her to get off this boat, and even if there was, where the hell was she going to go?
She got up, nodded her thanks to the server who took her plate away, and went to the fridge. There was another bottle of champagne there…upon closer inspection, she discovered that it was quite expensive. She pulled it out and got a glass from the rack overhead, then headed to the deck.
It was a beautiful night. She'd never seen so many stars. She made herself comfortable in a lounge chair, and popped open the champagne. The cork sailed over the edge and disappeared into the black sea below. Foam spilled over her hand and dribbled down to the floor, a silver snake of suds. She shook it off and poured herself a glass.
It was delicious.
She sat there, staring up at the stars, for a good while. She could see the arm of the Milky Way, stretching out over the heavens, a thick streak of cosmic dust and nebulae…
That's us…lost in space.
Vincent's words. It felt so long since that night, she hadn't realized how long until now. How could three weeks suddenly feel so long? Because their relationship had been altered, her doctor's mind told her. Change can create a feeling of distance from the past.
But what relationship? She frowned at the voice of reason, but then embraced it, letting the cold light of order fill her mind. It cooled the heat of her passions and let herself think more clearly. She was tired of rehashing things. She was tired of pondering the mystery that was Vincent. She missed her father. She would have given anything to be with him at this moment. Her throat closed and another wave of grief washed over her.
She drank more champagne. She thought about Laurie, and his rough voice and his even rougher chin, his grizzled hair, his sense of humor. She ached to hear him right now, longed for some of his wisdom, his ability to throw cold water on any intense situation.
She thought about her brother, and even through the haze of memories from her last visit with Mr. Bourbon she could remember his smile at Lupe, her doctor. There had been a spark there, and it made her happy. But all of that was being threatened by her situation. She hoped that Ray reached out to Lupe. He needed someone so badly, and she wasn't there.
That's not your fault, her conscience told her.
And then, carefully, as if handling a porcupine, she thought about her father. She thought about how, no matter what pain or agony he had suffered, he was with her mother now. He had been so devastated when she died – yet it had not driven him from his children, but instead made him hold them closer and more tenderly. And her father had always been a good Catholic. Good Catholics thrived on suffering, at least the ones playing for real. For as long as she could remember, whenever something had gone wrong, or pained her, no matter how big or small, he had encouraged her to "offer it up." He would have offered it up. He would have suffered proudly. He would have gritted his teeth and taken it. Her father was one of the toughest son-of-a-bitches she knew.
That made her smile. Her first real smile since she could remember. It made her cheeks ache with the unfamiliarity of it.
Soon the bottle was gone and she felt warm and fuzzy. She found herself remembering how her face had hurt when Vincent struck her so he could kill Annie. But he hadn't killed Annie. Why hadn't he? He'd gone through the motions, surely there was no way Annie could have lived if he hadn't wanted her to. Or maybe she was giving Vincent too much credit. Everyone made mistakes.
He'd made a major mistake by not killing her. He even admitted the mistake he made by ever getting into her cab to being with.
She shook her head, realizing that the wind was picking up and she was cold, her fingers were freezing and her toes were numb. She left the empty bottle and used glass behind, got up and pulled herself down to her room, where she stumbled in the dark because she couldn't remember where the light switch was.
She bumped into the bed and plopped down. Her face pressed against the satin of the comforter on the bed, and she remembered something else.
She remembered the kiss.
She turned her head to the side, then slowly pulled herself up on her arms and rested on her elbow. Vincent's face as he looked down into hers, the sound of his growl as he responded to her touch. Why was she tormenting herself like this? It was impossible…it would never, ever work. She could never get over what he was, and he certainly didn't seem capable of providing her with anything that she would need from him. Like stability, support...sanity.
Her mind drifted to Laurie. He could give her all those things.
A thumping broke into her thoughts. Startled, Callie became stone sober for a moment, but soon the haze slipped back over her. This was a boat, surely there were all kinds of noises—
Voices. A female voice, giggling. A man's voice, gruff…Vincent's voice.
Bloody hell, they were in the room next to her.
The thumping came again. Something was going on right against the wall between their rooms, and like a slow-motion eight-car pile-up, she couldn't look away from it. There wasn't anything to see, but her imagination was more than willing to fill in the pieces.
More strange noises, they were right against that wall, and pressure was being applied, she could hear the creaking. Then she heard Cathy's voice, and it wasn't giggling now, it was moaning, loud and long and hard. In a rhythmic pattern, following other physical noises that were muffled, wet thuds against that stupid thin wall.
Sobriety kicked in, her buzz now completely gone. They were fucking right against the wall of her cabin.
Callie stood up, pulling the blanket with her. She made it up to the deck before she threw up all of the champagne over the side of the ship. She was crying when she was done, and barely managed to wrap herself up in the bulky comforter before she collapsed back into her lounge chair.
What the hell was wrong with her? It wasn't like she was jealous, was she? But the thought of Vincent sleeping with that whore was just nauseating. And infuriating. Rationality tried to tell her she was repulsed at the fact that Vincent had probably been fucking this woman for a long time, and about whatever nasty, exotic diseases he could have picked up…
Forcing herself to calm down, Callie sat back in the chair and looked up at the stars. She breathed in the cold sea air, and wished she could wrap herself up in that comforter like a cocoon and never come out. Or at least, when she did, she'd be changed. Different. Someone other than who she was.
Someone was shaking her.
In a blink, the sky had changed from black to a pale gray-pink. She pushed the comforter out of her face; it had slipped over it in the middle of the night. She must have fallen asleep and not known it. It couldn't have been a deep sleep; she didn't feel rested at all. In fact, she felt more tired than ever.
She blinked in the light and tried to focus on the person who had woken her. When her vision cleared and she saw Vincent standing over her, she scowled and pulled the blanket back. He was the last person she wanted to see.
"We're going to be arriving in about an hour," he said, his voice that same low monotone.
She did not answer. If he was out here, then they weren't fucking in the room next to her anymore. How long had she been asleep? When had she fallen asleep? She didn't remember…
"You might want to freshen up," Vincent went on, his tone just a bit more cajoling.
She scowled into the blanket. She wanted to start swearing at him but didn't dare risk him thinking she was jealous.
"What are you doing out here, anyway?" he asked.
She stood up, pulling the blanket around her. Giving him her best stone-face, she turned and went down the stairs, back to her cabin. There just wasn't anything she could have said at that moment that wouldn't have completely given her away, anyway.
She missed Vincent's expression as she went. Perhaps if she'd seen it, she would have been slightly mollified.
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Vincent watched her go. He didn't like it when she wouldn't talk to him. He didn't like it when anybody wouldn't talk to him, but especially her. When a person stopped talking, that was when a person became dangerous.
He turned and looked out over the sea. It was always cooler, out here on the water. He was wearing a high-necked black sweater which he didn't really like, but knew he would need so he packed it anyway. He sipped his coffee and felt himself start to warm up.
Of course, he'd had every single intention of pissing Callie off. It should have gratified him to see her like this, as it had been what he was aiming for. Sure, she pretended that she wanted nothing to do with him, but he remembered how she'd kissed him. She had kissed him. No one could fake passion like that.
Still…the look on her face as she stood up. She was a mess, her hair needed washing, and her face was red. She had been crying? He wasn't quite sure.
The coldness in her eyes, though. That bothered him. Before her irritation had been amusing, encouraging. Now it was murderous.
That was simply the only word for it.
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Breakfast was eggs, potatoes and French toast. The table was spread with fine silverware, and Peter was already at the head, pouring himself some coffee. Cathy was the first to join him, dressed but still looking mildly disheveled, followed by Vincent, who seemed preoccupied, although Peter paid it no mind because in his experience Vincent's natural state was preoccupation.
Callie came in last, dressed in the most comfortable clothes she could find, a pair of designer sweats and a hoodie. Her hair was neatly pulled back into a pony-tail, having been freshly dried from a shower.
She did not make eye contact with anyone except Peter, who wished her a good morning, to which her only reply was a tight smile and a nod. She sat down across from Vincent, but did not look at him once. She began to pull food onto her plate, mostly French toast, along with some of the fruit from the various bowls that garnished the setting. She ate in silence, seemingly oblivious to the sudden tension in the room.
Peter was, by nature, a host. Being a man of money and importance had also determined that he be one who possessed social graces, as Callie had already seen from the previous night, as he had chatted aimlessly while she ate. He commented about the weather, about how they were sure to dock within the hour, about what was going on in Songkhla that day, what he had seen on the news, international affairs and whatnot.
Cathy listened politely, but seemed determined not to catch Vincent's eye. Vincent, on the other hand, stared at Callie and would not look away until she looked back.
She didn't.
One she dropped her fork onto her empty plate, she stood up, taking her cup of coffee with her. She mouthed a "thank-you" to Peter and promptly left the room.
Vincent watched her go, and for the first time Peter seemed to notice his perturbed expression.
"Well," he said, keeping his voice low, conversational, "I'd say the two of you have had quite an evening."
Cathy's hand automatically went to her neck, which Vincent noticed out of the corner of his eye that she was touching marks he'd left there. Upon second thought, he wondered if leaving them there had been a good idea.
"I can't thank you enough, Peter," Cathy beamed. She slid her hand to Vincent, who let her take his without comment. "I have to admit that last night was certainly…something."
Vincent gave her a flickering smile, but his eyes kept going to where Callie disappeared.
Peter sighed deeply and leaned back in his seat. He seemed to instantly forget that Cathy was in the room. "You really aren't that thick, are you, old friend?"
Vincent's ears pricked at the use of the words "old friend," something Peter only said whenever he really wanted Vincent's undivided attention. "What do you mean?"
Peter snorted. "Your rooms were right beside each other. You knew that perfectly well. What were you thinking?"
"I don't know what you're talking about." The finality with which he said it, and not at all with the sort of innocent evasiveness that might have come from a more average person, should have been a clear enough sign for Peter to shut his mouth. But Peter did not shut his mouth lightly, and so continued.
"I have to admit, she's not what I expected. Sure, she's reasonably attractive, but for all the fuss I would have expected a supermodel as opposed to a fresh faced young girl. Then again, beauty is only skin deep. And the amount of trouble you've gone through, not to mention that I've gone through, has been considerable. You're doing a very piss-poor job of convincing me that it's been worth it. If she's important, Vincent, I'd say you've sufficiently fucked it up."
With that, Vincent stood up, threw down his napkin, and left the room.
Cathy just stared at him from across the table, her cheeks a mild shade of pink. "What were you two talking about?" she asked.
Peter finished his coffee and stood. "I'll be with the captain. I suggest you take your leisure where you may, Cathy. I don't think you'll be seeing much of Vincent after we dock."
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"What are you doing?"
Callie had filled the sink with suds and water. She was dipping her jeans and T-shirt into it, and wringing them out, an old-fashioned way of doing laundry. She did not speak nor look at him.
"So now you're not talking to me," Vincent said. "Can I ask why? I did what you wanted, I left you alone, gave you space. I've given you more than space."
She acted as if he wasn't there.
"Callie, I'm talking to you." He stepped closer to her, and caught her wrist in his hand. She stopped, took a breath, and then turned her eyes on him.
He wished she hadn't.
The complete indifference, the passivity, felt like she was looking right through him. Vincent knew perfectly well why she was angry, and knew she possibly had every right to be, but at the same time, she had made it perfectly clear that…
The words were coming out of his mouth before he could stop them. "You didn't want me," he said. "So why are you angry at me for finding someone who does?"
Coolly, she arched an eyebrow, as if to silently say, "Your point?"
After a few moments of this, he let go. "Fine," he muttered. "Fine." And he turned and left.
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Vincent: You cheated!
Me: In what way did I cheat?
Vincent: All of this chapter was just the stuff you kept from the last version of this story! The To Live Or To Die one! It's just cut and pasted!
Me: And carefully edited, in my defense! I didn't cheat, this came from my favorite stuff from the last story. I adored the whole boat scene and wanted to make sure it stayed in. My favorite part was Callie wallowing in self-pity on the deck. And getting drunk on Don Perginon.
Jackson: You can't spell. I know that's not how that champagne is spelled.
Me: Oh stuff it. Anyway, I also love that it's Vincent that finds her on the deck. That was just pure…oh, well, I don't want to toot my own horn too much. I just wanted to make sure to reuse this stuff. And I did carefully edit it, and made sure it make sense. Not the easiest thing to do but much easier than writing it all from scratch.
Vincent: (grumbles)
Jackson: (whines)
Me: What are you whining about??
Jackson: I wasn't in this chapter. Am I going to be in another chapter soon? (pouts)
Me: Oh great. Now I have to hear it from you. Hey, everybody, go review so I can post another chapter and maybe put Jackson it in!
Jackson: (claps hands) Yay!