Disclaimer: The Usual.
A/N: Ah, I have no excuse. It's been over a year since this story was updated and even longer since it was worked on. I have four chapters sitting in the hole. I was waiting until i had finished to update, but instead I decided to just update. Four chapters should keep you guys busy for a bit. I will, eventually, finish. I just don't know when. This is what happens when you work two jobs, leave your house at 7ish a.m. and don't get home until almost 6:30 p.m. every day.
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Chapter Sixteen: Stupid (from the song by Sarah McLachlan)
When Callie woke up, she had lost the whole day. And she was alone.
The sky had turned to twilight and the world outside looked like a wonderland. Callie lay on the bed, staring out the large window, wondering where Vincent was. Maybe he had left a note, she told herself, and managed to pull herself upright to check the bedside table. Her head throbbed in objection – sleeping through the day hadn't agreed with her, apparently. And after realizing there was no note on the table, she realized she had to pee.
The bathroom was larger than she had anticipated. It contained both a shower and a bath – a very round, deep bathtub that resembled a Jacuzzi. But it was nothing compared to the shower. It occupied the entire corner, and was hexagon shaped, with two nozzles that formed an X when the spigots were fully on. Everything was done in a soft, cocoa colored tile, and the mirror stretched fully across the room, making the bathroom seem twice as large.
She washed her face, ran a brush through her hair – someone had left a basket of personal supplies, and she didn't hesitate to make free use of them – and then wandered back into the main room. She was still in those stupid sweats from the boat, and Vincent had tossed out the clothes she had come in.
It was when she reached for the hotel room door that she saw the note. He had taped it at eye level.
"Don't go out."
Callie cussed under her breath. Lot of fair this was, him leaving her alone. Was she even allowed to call room service and get something to eat? It might let a stranger into the room.
Then the memory of what Ray had said happened to her father flashed through her mind and she felt subdued. Rochester would do worse to her. Vincent was trying to protect her. Still, she couldn't bear the thought of pacing this room, luxurious as it was, just waiting for him to come back!
She was able to hold herself off for almost a half-hour – it was closer to twenty minutes when she convinced herself she was only going to the lobby. Vincent may have not meant the lobby – he may have just been warning her not to leave the hotel itself. But in the lobby she was more than safe. He'd said to stay in public places, well, she'd get one of the women who had to work in the shops to help her, and therefore she wouldn't be alone.
She felt guilty only for the elevator ride down. Vincent would be mad at her, she realized, if she misunderstood his direction, but was that her fault? Mr. I'm-vague-and-mysterious couldn't be bothered to leave more details? Of course she'd misunderstood, who wouldn't have? He'd have nobody to blame but himself.
When she entered the small gallery where the clothing shops were, she forgot herself. She could charge anything she purchased to the room. And there was little doubt in her mind that Peter was picking up the tab for this – after all, he had loaned Vincent his jet and then his boat, right? So therefore, it was all up for grabs.
She was a kid in a candy store. For a little while, she was able to forget. Forget the horror back at home, forget the confusion of being with Vincent, and even forget her fear and grief. She knew she was just sidestepping reality, but it was worth it, for just a little while.
Such clothes…the woman, a very young Thai lady with a witch's streak through her short dark hair and eyes like toasted almonds, who was on the counter that night spoke English perfectly. Callie explained that she had no clothes at all, that she had to buy everything. The woman, whose nametag read "Lei," hooked her up with everything she needed and more. She even pointed her across the way to an associate, Beth, an American transplant, to get her a bathing suit.
Hotel services sent a bellhop to help her get all her purchases up to the room, and by then it was fully dark. Vincent was still not back. Hangars had been provided, and Callie even hummed to herself as she hung things up, but still, no sign of her self-appointed bodyguard.
It was almost nine o'clock when she had had enough. Flipping through the television channels, she discovered on the hotel's commercial line that there was a pool on the roof, encased in walls of glass. She decided to put on her bathing suit and take a trip upstairs.
The pool was heated. In the cool of the air conditioning, it felt wonderful. She floated and relaxed, and took comfort in the people around her, all of whom seemed more than content to mind their own business. Then she did some laps – in high school, she had been on the swim team, and had continued the exercise into college, but she was long out of her routine. She swam until she felt herself start to cramp, and then decided maybe it was time to take a break.
She was under water, having just done her last flip and turn, when she looked up through the watery depths and saw someone standing at the pool's edge. He looked familiar, and as Callie's head emerged, she realized Vincent was there, staring down at her.
He didn't look happy.
She treaded water for a moment, staring up at him. She waited for some kind of reprimand, some chastising remark, but nothing came. Then, he looked around, and she had the feeling he'd been scanning the entire area for several minutes. From her under-sided view, his lips seemed to be curled in a mild expression of irritation.
Finally, she realized he was holding a towel. He made a jerking motion with his head, and she didn't dare argue. She swam over to the steps where the pool became shallow and walked up and out. As the water pulled away from her body, she suddenly felt very vulnerable, almost naked, even though the suit was a one-piece and very modestly cut.
He waited for her at the top. He had opened the towel and it hung down in front of him, his arms spread. As if he expected her to step into it. Callie suddenly blushed furiously at the thought, and her cheeks gained more heat when she realized the thought made her blush. Still, the way he was looking at her, chin lowered, eyes up, an intimidating glare although it lacked real teeth, she didn't dare stop. She stepped closer to him, reaching for the towel, but he folded it around her, encasing her in its warmth and pulling her closer to him than she wanted to be.
"What are you doing?" he said, his voice low. It sent air over her wet skin and made her shiver.
"Swimming," she said, struggling to keep her tone innocent but not cowed. "Where have you been?"
He didn't answer, just hooked the towel behind her and then grabbed another one, this one going over her shoulders. He pulled her a little closer this time, his displeasure still obvious.
"You need to come back to the room with me, right now," he said, his voice cool.
She frowned. She was suddenly indignant, being rebuked as if she were a small child. "I'm pretty wet," she said. "I want to dry off a bit."
He gave her a look that nearly broke her reserve. But she clung hard. "It's not a good idea," he said. "I can't believe you didn't listen…didn't you read the note?"
"It said don't go outside," she said. "I'm not outside. I'm inside. I've been inside the hotel all day…well, night. You said don't go outside. I haven't."
He gave her another you're-an-idiot look, but she frowned, holding fast.
"Oh, come on, Vincent!" she hissed at him. "I've been alone how long? Nothing's happened to me. If you've been in the room I'm sure you saw I went shopping. Where do you think I got this? Nothing happened to me." She scowled now, feeling angry. "And where have you been?" The sudden thought of Cathy popped into her head and she felt irrationally jealous. She knew it appeared in her face but she didn't care – anything to get the heat off her. "With your friend from the boat? You've been having fun and expecting me to just rot in the room, bored out of my mind?"
He raised an eyebrow. The look unsettled her and she turned her eyes away. He answered by letting go of the towel across her shoulders.
"Well, excuse me," he said, his voice still subdued. "I forgot that you know everything. By all means, then, finish drying off. I'll see you when you decide to come back to the room. Take your time."
The sarcasm dripped thicker than the drops of chlorinated water that oozed off her suit. She watched him go, but he didn't look back. Fuming, she went over to a lounge chair and sat down.
For several minutes, she could hardly think – just replay the conversation over and over in her head, if it could have been called that. The looks on his face, the injury of his words. He left her alone! And she hadn't disobeyed him! What was she, a mind-reader? Was she supposed to just know everything his words meant, even if that's not what he said? He was being unreasonable!
Then the guilt came. The continuous reminders of why she was here. That was followed closely by the resentment, and then her thoughts turned back to her brother…and Laurie.
She missed him so much. It was like an ache in her belly. She didn't have this confusion, this pain with Laurie. With Laurie, she knew where everything was, no turmoil, no anguish.
She realized she'd been sitting there long enough for the towels she was wearing to be soaked through and her suit to be as dry as it was going to get. Her hair felt like straw as she stood up, heading over to the small alcove where the fresh towels were kept. She peeled off the used ones and tossed them into the hamper, and just as she was reaching for a fresh one, she felt a powerful hand grip her just above the elbow.
She turned her head but saw nothing. Whoever it was dragged her toward him, if it was a him, and she only saw the flash of blue from the janitor's uniform he was wearing before she found herself, again, in a dark utility closet.
The light snapped on and she would have screamed if there wasn't a hand over her mouth. Rochester smiled down at her.
"Hello, Callie," he said, almost cheerfully, as he pressed her into the door, effectively keeping it shut. "Fancy meeting you here."
She looked up at him, shock and disbelief overpowering her for a moment, but then, quickly, the anger kicked in, and she started to struggle. Furiously, she lashed out and grunted, until she saw the annoyance rise in his face as well. She didn't care – this was the man who had killed her father! She suddenly felt vicious, dangerous, and even bit against the fingers that held her lips closed.
"Hey now!" he snapped at her, and she felt a sudden pain that made her left arm go numb. He must have been pressing a pressure point because she couldn't pinpoint the source. "That's not very nice. What, didn't like my message? But I thought red was every girl's favorite color."
She had no idea what he was talking about – she looked at him as if he were deranged. She didn't care, though. The sudden urge to make this monster pay overwhelmed her.
"You know, I just put the old dog out of his misery," Rochester said, pressing harder against her so it made it harder to struggle – although she did keep trying. "Didn't even tell you he had cancer, did he? But your mom died of cancer, too, right? Small cell? You know that runs in the family. Now you've got it on both sides, Callie. You know cancer is a much crueler killer than I could ever be. So if you really think about it, you'll realize I'm doing all of you a favor."
She muffled obscenities underneath his hand.
"Ah, I'm unappreciated in my own time." He wiggled against her, rubbing her suggestively. "Fine with me, most geniuses are."
She glowered at him, and unbidden, tears came to her eyes. She struggled to keep them back, realizing he would just take more perverse pleasure in her pain. She blinked several times, but he was too close for her to fake it – he saw her pain, and it made him smile.
"So what is this, Callie? You escape on a little weekend getaway? Your new sugar daddy buys you everything you need…and you're stupid enough to snap at him and let him walk away. You should have listened to Vincent. But I'm sure your head isn't exactly in the right place right now. It can't be easy, falling hard for a guy who put you through so much hell. And yet that poor stupid sap just keeps taking it from you, no matter how many times you kick him in the balls." Rochester ground his hips into her, making her wince. He got one thigh between hers, and she let out a small, whimpering cry. "It's almost kinky, if you ask me. Watching it, though. Any woman who tried to do that to me would…well, I think I'll just show you."
He leaned over her, and Callie let out a scream. It wasn't much – it caught in her throat and burned there, vibrating through her chest. She felt his mouth on her neck and the touch of his lips was like acid. She realized he was kissing her, but it was more than that – he was sucking on her skin, drawing it into his mouth.
She bucked. His leg went deeper between hers, almost lifting her feet from the floor. Her breasts ached from where they were smashed against his chest, and then she felt a pinch and realized his other hand, the one that wasn't pinning her shoulders to the door, was squeezing one of her breasts. Which left her mouth free, but she couldn't get enough air to scream.
Oh God, this was it, she realized. This was the beginning. He had been waiting to get her away from Vincent, biding his time, and now, this rotten little closet was the last thing she was ever going to see.
The thought drained her of every drop of adrenaline. She fell limp, sagging against the door. He lifted his mouth from her skin and turned his eyes to her, puzzled.
"Oh, come on, sugar, I wasn't finished yet." He chuckled. "You know, though, this has really been a lot of fun for me. You're like ripe, fresh fruit, dangling in plain sight. I can swipe you any time – usually, I'm a go-for-it kind of guy, but you're really making me appreciate the anticipation."
"You're not going to kill me," she said, her voice cracked and weakened. Vincent's words suddenly rang back to her. "Not until you've killed him. You said it yourself, before."
He blinked. "Yes, I did. Well, I'm nothing if not inconsistent." He looked her over, raising an eyebrow suggestively. "Looks like we're kindred spirits."
That got her attention. She snapped her eyes up to his. "What are you rambling about?"
He chuckled. "Look at you. That sweet little bathing suit you've got on. I saw you by the pool before. You break his balls, but you know you want him. You just can't live with what that says about you."
Her eyes widened. "You're…you don't…" She couldn't get the words out. Instead, she just snorted and looked away.
He stared at her for a long moment, and then she felt him seize her hair and pull her forward. One hand clamped around her jaw, muffling her scream, as his teeth descended to the raw spot he had created before.
And he bit down.
She felt the hot blood against her skin, and had a sudden and horrible vision of him ripping out her jugular like some jungle cat. But instead, he let go, and she felt the sting of air against torn skin right before he tossed her behind him like a used towel. She slammed face first into a shelf of towels, smacking her jaw against the metal edge, and when she recovered herself, she was alone.
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The elevator door slid open to reveal Callie standing in the car. Vincent opened his mouth to reprimand her again, his frustration that had been building over the last twenty minutes ready to vent itself on her, damn what she might think. But when he saw that she clutched a towel to her neck, and that the towel was streaked with dark red blood, he stopped in mid-remark, and immediately opened his arms to grasp her between them.
"What happened?" he asked, even as he propelled her out of the elevator and down the hall to their room. He didn't take his eyes from her as he got the keycard into its slot, observing her paleness, the slanted look in her eyes. Shock, he recognized. And there was a bright red mark along her left cheekbone, straight, as if she'd run sidelong into a pole.
"Rochester," she managed in a small voice. He got her into the bathroom and made her sit down on the toilet. Her hand had clenched around the towel, and he had to nearly pry it off, although he was gentle about it.
"What the hell did he do?" Vincent asked, even as he looked at the torn flesh. It didn't look like a knife wound, and it wasn't deep, but it was ugly, and would leave a scar.
"Bit me," she said.
Vincent paused for a moment. Rochester had gotten to her, right under his nose. He'd had time to pull her into some secluded place, and do this to her. It was a message; that was obvious. He'd found them sooner than Vincent had anticipated, but…something about this didn't ring right.
She mistook his silence for something else. She turned her eyes toward him, but didn't meet his. "Please," she said, her voice like broken clay, "no I-told-you-soes. I get it, you were right, I was wrong. I won't leave the room again."
He blinked. He'd seen her like this before…had it only been a few weeks? The dead tone in her voice, the blank look in her eyes. He couldn't stand her like this. Broken. Defeated.
He stared at her for a long moment, unsure what to do. Last time, he had kissed her, but he'd given his word, and knew that if he broke it, it would make things worse, not better. So instead, he reached behind him for a washcloth and soaked it in cold water. Then he pulled some ice from the nearby bucket and folded it into the white cloth, and pressed the bundle against the wound.
"Hold that here," he said softly. "I'll be right back."
She winced slightly as the cold met the heat, but he could tell by the lines of her brow that it immediately helped. She clamped her hand over the bundle and gave a slight nod, and he went into the main room and called for room service. He promised the guy fifty dollars if he hustled, bearing with him a considerable first aid kit. Then he went back into the bathroom.
She was crying.
It stunned him for a moment. He turned his back and suddenly waterworks. He was unprepared; the last time he'd seen her cry, he'd been chasing her through the metro rail train and just shot that district attorney. Sure, she had been upset, it was a normal reaction for a woman to cry in situations of extreme stress. It didn't mean he had to like it or that he knew how to deal with it. It had derailed him then and it derailed him now. He had no reaction.
"It's…it's not that bad," he said, feeling lame, as he went back to cleaning the mark. "I know it hurts, but…"
Stupid. It wasn't that kind of pain. It was piling on her, and finally the avalanche hit. Her shoulders shook and her breath came in wet snorts. She had pressed both hands to her face, hiding herself from him.
He resisted the urge to start swearing under his breath. In normal situations, when women cried, men felt the urge to comfort them. He'd seen it a dozen times, but had never landed himself in the position where he had to follow suit. And he knew if he put his arms around Callie, there was no telling where it might lead. He wasn't sure he'd be able to control himself.
Finally, unable to help himself any longer, he knelt down in front of her and gently pulled her hands away from her face. With a clean hand towel, he mopped up her wet cheeks and then handed her a Kleenex. She blew her nose, tossed it aside, but didn't stop crying.
"It's not your fault," he said, scrambling for something, anything to say. "It's mine. I shouldn't have left you. I should have stayed with you."
She didn't answer. Her breath was still coming out in tight wheezes, obstructed by the sobs in her throat.
He couldn't take it anymore. He got up on his knees and encircled her in his arms, being careful to keep clear of the raw, aching rip in her shoulder. He pulled her to his chest and pressed her there, and she responded, her arms going around his neck tightly.
"Callie," he said, hearing the pleading in his own voice and straining against being ashamed of it, "please, please stop crying."
How long he held her, he wasn't sure. At first she was tense in his arms, but slowly she unclenched and he felt her go soft against him. She rested her head on his shoulder, and slowly her sobs subsided.
A knock on the door gave him an excuse to let her go. He extracted himself from her and went to get the first aid kid he'd ordered. It contained everything he asked – hydrogen peroxide, ointment, gauze and tape. He went about the job of bandaging her up, but she remained silent. She hardly flinched when he had to pour the peroxide on her, to make sure the wound was sterilized. If it had been him, he would have just poured alcohol down the damn thing, but didn't feel like hearing her scream.
Rochester…he was taunting them, that was it. He knew she was Vincent's weakness and he was rubbing his face in it.
"It's not just skin, it's muscle, too," he said after medicating it thoroughly. "Which means its going to ache for a while. You might want some aspirin or ibuprofen or something." He tried to keep his tone detached, but knew it was only a front. He'd already held her, for crying out loud, he had begged her to stop crying. He'd become a complete sap! Rather disgusted with himself, he didn't even notice when she didn't answer.
When the gauze was firmly taped in place, he gave her shoulder a light pat. "I'm going to order us some dinner," he said. "You probably don't think you're hungry but I'm ordering a cheeseburger for you anyway, unless you want something different."
He was at the threshold of the bathroom when she spoke. "Club sandwich," she said. "And some soup."
He glanced at her over his shoulder, nodded, and headed back out into the main room.
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Callie sat on the toilet for several minutes after he left. She could hear him in the next room, on the telephone, then turning on the television. He sounded…odd. Strained. No doubt, he had just acted completely out of character. It had to be draining on a man to pretend he had compassion. But his tone remained polite to whoever was taking their dinner order, and he settled himself into the room's largest easy chair with a sigh as he proceeded to watch the news.
She wiped at her face, and realized the only part of her that felt remotely clean was the injury on her shoulder. Her bathing suit had completely dried, leaving a salty crust from the chlorine on her skin. She didn't want to bathe, though, for fear of getting Vincent's hard work all wet. So she went into the main room, grabbed up a pair of shorts and a T-shirt from her earlier shopping spree, and went back into the bathroom, filling the sink with hot, soapy water. The tub was too large, and the shower, in spite of its width, seemed to promise only soaking her completely, and she didn't want to mess up Vincent's efforts.
She scoured herself down as best she could, careful to avoid her wound. When she was done, she thrust her whole head into the deep sink and washed her hair. It was lucky that she had many nice bathing scrubs and body washes, as it gave the room and her a pleasant odor when she was done.
She heard voices through the door when she finally finished, her hair neat and combed, sprayed down with leave-in conditioner. A rattling of silverware and glass told her that their meal had arrived, and Callie was extremely pleased to find a bowl of creamy tomato soup beside a large croissant stuffed with turkey, bacon and avocado.
They ate in silence. Vincent didn't eat much, only munched on a steak sandwich, and didn't even touch the French fries. He seemed absorbed by the news, but from what she could tell, there was nothing on there that even remotely related to them.
It didn't surprise her – the only thing that would come onto their radar would be international, and neither she nor Vincent was important enough to make international news. Felix Reyes Torrena, however…
She nearly dropped her spoon when his face flashed onto the screen. Vincent had the captioning on so that they could read the translation in English, but it flashed across the screen so quickly Callie couldn't absorb it all. They were attempting to bring him up on charges again, blah blah, murder charges, blah blah.
Callie looked to Vincent, who was frowning thoughtfully. After the segment was done, he turned the television off and looked back at her. "What?" he asked, nonchalant.
"Do you think it means something?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Probably. Felix is the one who had the contract out on you. If the district attorney's office has finally gotten enough leftovers to level charges at him again, they can't be basing them on you because you're not there. So it might be a bluff. Or it might not." He shrugged again. "Doesn't matter to us at the moment. We have bigger problems."
She nodded. "So what's the plan?" she asked.
He didn't answer for a good minute. "I don't think we should stay here past tomorrow," he said. "In the morning, we should check out."
"Where are we going to go?"
He didn't answer, but instead got up and put the rest of his dinner back on the room service tray. He took her empty plates and piled them up, then stuffed the whole mess out into the hallway. When he turned back, she was standing up, facing him, so that they were merely inches apart.
"Housekeeper doesn't suit you," she said, folding her arms. "Come on, Vincent. I give up; I'm in this with you. I'll do what you tell me, but you have to tell me. You said something before about using me as bait…why don't we do that? We know he's here, we know he wants to get to us both, we can use that—"
"No," he cut her off. His eyes strayed to the white patch just visible through the collar of her shirt. "No, I don't want to take that risk."
She sighed, frustrated. It was getting painfully obvious that Vincent had feelings for her…why couldn't he just tell her? Was it because he was sure that she didn't have any for him? She doubted that…it was becoming painfully obvious to her as well that she was giving in to his influence, she was becoming used to his presence, becoming relaxed, even trusting. He wasn't stupid; he had to know about his power over her.
"We can't just do nothing!" she cried, flinging out her arms. He tried to go around her, turning away, but suddenly impulse seized hold of her and she grabbed his arm, yanking him back. He turned his head back to her, surprised. "Vincent, dammit! We're not going anywhere, we're just running around in circles, I can't stand it and I know you can't stand it either!" She suddenly gritted her teeth and glared up at him. "I want him too, you know! That monster murdered my father and I want some payback! Go ahead and use me, I trust you!"
The words were out of her mouth before she realized them. He seemed to stop, looking down at her, his expression unreadable. Then, very softly, he said, "Revenge isn't your style, Callie."
"Why not? He deserves it," she growled. "I'm not afraid, Vincent."
"Well, I am." If he had been someone else, he might have clamped his hand over his mouth as soon as those treacherous words escaped. Because he was afraid – he was terrified. Rochester was going to torture her and kill her slowly and he wasn't going to be able to stop him. He had become weak and stupid, and he couldn't think clearly.
She took a half-step back, her face gone slack with astonishment. "Huh," she said faintly. "Didn't expect you to say that. Expected you to say that I should be—"
"You should," he snapped, angry at himself, and at her. He tried to turn away again, but she had both hands on his arm now and was digging in. He wanted to shake her off, but couldn't find it in himself to fling her away. He turned, opening his mouth to muster up something scathing to her, something that would get her off him, something that would hurt just enough –
And instead found her mouth pressed against his.
At first he was too shocked to react. Then he wound both arms around her and squeezed her to him until there was no space between them. Callie gasped as the air was pushed from her lungs, but it didn't stop her from kissing him again, her hands going into his hair, her arms around his neck, strangling him.
He could have died happy.
No, this was too much. She was emotional, she was grieving, and she wasn't behaving like herself. It was…well, it was wrong. He couldn't take advantage of her like this, even though she had initiated it, she had given him permission to break his promise. He managed to get his hands on her upper arms and put just a half-inch of room between them, almost creating a suction noise as their lips finally parted.
"Callie," he said, his voice smoky. "Callie, wait…you shouldn't…you have to be sure." He looked at her, eyes burning. God, he wanted her so badly, it would be the hardest thing he'd ever do in his life, pushing her away.
She looked up at him. It was painful, to suddenly want him like this. To know it was her only chance. Her mind, her morals screamed at her to walk away, told her it was wrong, and she knew it was wrong, all through and through.
She chose. She chose not to stop. She convinced herself that it was her only chance, the only time in her life she'd ever get this, and if she didn't do it the regret would drive her mad.
She was wrong. But she still chose.
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Jackson: Well, that brings a whole knew meaning to the expression "bite me," doesn't it?
Vincent: Wait…where is the sex?
Me: Sorry. No sex.
Vincent: What, we didn't have sex? How could we not have had sex?
Me: Yes, you had sex. No, I'm not showing it.
Vincent: Oh, you mean you're not showing it in this chapter. But it'll be in the next chapter, right?
Me: No, it won't. I'd get carried away and I'm not taking the risk. I'm trying to be less sexually graphic in my writing. I'm trying to be a good girl.
(Both Vincent and Jackson give her very pointed looks.)
Me: Well I am! If it makes you feel any better Vincent, I've seen it in my head and it was very cute and very naughty and…well, I'm not taking responsibility for anyone else's imagination but mine.
Vincent: The fangirls are going to be pretty pissed at you.
Me: Sorry. Not happening. I think it's better this way, anyway.
Jackson: How so?
Me: I don't know. It just is.