Hi guys, I had this idea and I'm not sure about it...I currently have a LiveJournal account that I've had since middle school that is right now just kind of hanging out not doing much. I was wondering, would you be interested in reading sort of supplemental information about this story now and then, for example if I wrote a little about something that inspired certain parts of the story, just FYI type of stuff. The thing is I can't tell if this is genuinely a good idea, or just sounds cool and would actually be kind of boring for all parties involved. wut do u think Thank you for reading and to those who have reviewed/faved/etc.
16 Handsome Devil
Now that Delilah was a trainer of some stature, it was easy to find people who wanted to battle her, but difficult to find people who wanted to battle her for money.
This presented a few logistical problems. She disliked saying no to matches, which she felt were always valuable training, but accepting them even when they involved no financial stakes meant that some days she left the gym with little or no income. This wasn't so big, since she now got paid to do other things like appear at conferences or address the press, but it seemed at this rate that she would end up circulating the gyms even more quickly, simply because the gym leaders were more or less obligated to battle her even if nobody else would.
She didn't see Adam at the gyms like she had in Johto, she assumed because he had probably already won Kanto's badges, considering he lived there and everything. She happened upon him for the first time in November, at the Saffron pokémon center. "I had a dream about you the other night," he said.
"Oh, yeah?"
"You were looking through a catalogue, picking out magazine subscriptions." He shrugged. "Who knows what Freud would say..."
"He'd probably say you have an Oedipus complex."
He laughed. "Well, obviously, I had a rough childhood," he said.
"Then grow up."
He laughed again as the nurse handed him his poké balls. "What are you doing today?"
"Well, nothing, now," she said. "I was just at a master class at the Saffron Gym, so I'll probably just chill out now."
"Do you want to hang out?" he asked. "I have to run some errands for my dad, but we could go to lunch if you want."
First, he took his car to a mechanic to have the oil changed. The man asked, "What sort of oil do you use?"
"Oh," said Delilah, "he usually starts by telling them how beautiful they are..."
"Oh!" Adam exclaimed loudly. "She's funny today! Isn't she funny? Isn't she?"
The mechanic smiled. "Hysterical," he said.
Delilah and Adam stood out of the way for a minute, and Adam started looking for his money. He reached into his pants pocket and frowned. "Huh, I guess I put it in my jacket," he said, unzipping a pocket on his jacket. He took out half of a peppermint Ritter-Sport, a card case, his BlackBerry, and finally a money clip. "Well, forget this, if we've got chocolate," he said, and put everything back except the candy bar, which he snapped in half to share with her.
"I've never had this kind before," she said.
"I'm glad you like it," he said. "I've always been taught that there are three things a girl never deserves. Number one"—he stuck out a finger—"small jewellery. Number two"—he stuck up the next finger—"fake orgasms. And number three"—a third finger went up—"bad chocolate."
She couldn't help but smile. "If there's one thing I like about you, it's that you know what's important in life," she said.
"Well, if there's one thing I like about you...it's..."
"Don't strain yourself."
He laughed. "You're nice to have around when I want to be by myself," he said.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"It's a compliment," he claimed.
She rolled her eyes. "I'll never be able to repay you," she said.
He stood in front of her, leaning one hand on the wall.
She looked up at him, and felt her face get hot.
"Try," he suggested.
"That's right," she said, becoming conscious of her own blinking. "You're notorious here, aren't you?"
"Don't believe everything you hear," he said. His eyes burned into her like dry ice. "Half the lies they tell about me aren't true."
Her face got hotter. She tried to think of something to say but didn't.
Lazily he looked her over. "Shall I begin by telling you how beautiful you are?" he asked. "Your eyes, maybe?"
She smiled twistedly. "I guess you see your reflection in them?"
His smirking laughter passed over her face. "I wish Irwin were here," he said.
"You really make me feel special," she said. "But not very."
His knee touched hers and she noticed how fast her heart was beating. "Have you talked to him lately?" he asked.
"What, are you in love with him or something? He told me you're the biggest idiot on the face of the planet."
His smile was sudden and radiant. "What did you say?"
"I defended you, of course."
"Really?"
"Sure, I said, 'Irwin, brains aren't everything.'"
He laughed and stood up. "I guess you would know," he said.
"Right, I can tell, you dress to accentuate your mind."
"Oh, like you can talk," he scoffed, gesturing to her chest. "I can see every inch of your brains."
"My brains...?"
"That's what you want men to be interested in, isn't it, your brains. But to show them off like that, it's elitist intellectual snobbery."
"Oh, yeah? Whenever I see you in the rags here they call you a 'smartarse'," she said, mocking his accent. "Everybody seems to be in agreement that that's the most intelligent part of you."
"That's more than I could say for you, because I'd call you a 'dumbass'," he said, exaggerating her accent in turn.
Delilah didn't talk to Irwin as much as she used to; in fact, she didn't talk to anyone as much as she used to, which truthfully wasn't very much in the first place.
Adam dug for his money again but the mechanic said, "It was your birthday recently, wasn't it then?" When Adam said yes, he said, "No need to pay me this time. Just make sure and tell your father, okay?"
What an interesting way of getting people to do you favors, she thought. Probably there was some kind of extortion racket or something going on.
Or maybe it just never hurt to be extra nice to the Harlows.
While the oil was being changed they went into a nearby Superdrug and Adam asked, "Excuse me, do you sell ice bags?"
Rather than dispensing instructions on where to find them, the man said, "Certainly, Mr Harlow," and went off and then came back with an armful of colorful ice bags.
Adam tried them on like a lady picking out a hat. "Have you got any in tartan?" he asked, constantly amazing Delilah with the way he interacted with the world.
After they left he looked at his watch, and then at the window in front of them. "Why don't you try on that dress in the window?" he asked.
"What an obscene and perfectly typical suggestion!" she gasped. "Right there in the window, where everyone could see me? How dare you?"
"Yeah, how do I dare?" he agreed, putting an arm around her, as slick and smooth and curve-conscious as bias-cut charmeuse. "How about a hug, Delilah?"
"Adam, I'll give you exactly thirty minutes to get off me."
He laughed and released her unhurriedly, his high white cheekbones stained pink from cold and arousal.
"Why don't you try on that dress?" she asked, pointing to another.
He pretended to consider it. "I don't think so. I look terrible in earth tones," he said. "They make me look as if I haven't slept in weeks. It's too bad, because they're really lovely."
"I guess," she said. "But you look good in jewel tones, though."
"Well, everybody looks good in something," he said.
Adam occasionally made comments like these, comments that surprised Delilah somewhat, making her reconsider the depth or direction of his vanity. Adam seemed to genuinely believe that anyone could look as good as he did, and if they didn't, it was their own fault because they were just too stupid or lazy to try. Occasionally she got to thinking that the perfect career for him would be as the abrasive host of an obnoxious makeover reality show, like the unholy lovechild of Simon Cowell and Gok Wan. Who would ever guess that Adam was straight...?
...Oh, yeah.
Because of the cut of the bodice she wasn't sure that it would fit her, but Adam told her to try it on anyway because it might give her "a nice décolleté".
She was right: she couldn't close the hook-and-eye, and the zipper only zipped halfway up.
Through the door Adam called, "Is it a fit?"
"More like a convulsion," she said, looking at her reflection and trying to adjust the neckline, which of course didn't work. She wrinkled her nose at the mirror and turned, jumping in fright when she saw Adam hanging over the top of the door.
"You were taking a long time," he explained. "I got you another dress."
"Well, it doesn't fit," she said, taking the second dress from him and showing him her back. "See, it doesn't zip all the way."
"Can I help at all?"
"No, 'cuz it—were you looking while I was changing?"
"No. Is it about to happen again? Maybe I'll get it right this time."
"Oh, go away," she said.
Adam certainly was a funny person. He seemed to be having more fun than she was, and, to his credit, the second dress he chose was even prettier than the first and it fit like a dream, so perhaps there was something to be said for the dubious skill of identifying bra sizes by sight. What a strange situation it must have been, to have been born to Giovanni and Ivy Harlow. Adam's clothes always fit him like a second skin—if they weren't ordered straight off the runways they were probably tailored especially for him on Jermyn Street and Savile Row. Adam probably had Pretty Woman shopping sequences on a regular basis.
She bought the dress at his insistence, even though it was kind of expensive, but she had never worn a dress that fit her so well straight off the rack. Besides, she made a lot more money now, so why not?
"Give me a minute," he said outside, stopping for a Benson & Hedges. "Do you want one?"
She shook her head, and looked at the bank in front of them as he opened his jacket to shield the flame. "2.6%," she said. "Is that good?"
He shrugged. "I guess. But I know how you can get 200% interest."
"Oh? What kind of bank is that?"
"I'll show you, if you'll deposit a kiss with me," he said, leaning toward her expectantly.
She laughed on his face. "I wouldn't kiss you if you were the last man on Earth!" she said, and kissed him. Then she patted his cheek and said, "As luck would have it, you're not."
"Now I return it with 200% interest." He leapt on her like a persian, kissing her hard and fast; his hand was cold on her neck and he tasted like smoke and Acqua di Parma.
"Well," she said dazedly as he wiped lipstick off his mouth. "Banking is much more interesting than I ever gave it credit for."
"You ought to try the post office," he suggested.
"I don't think my reputation is ready for that," she said.
As they waited for their food in a restaurant he told her that he was running errands for his father because he wanted a new motorcycle.
"Well, you never seem to be lacking a car," she said.
"Cars aren't the same."
She smirked. "Yeah, I guess there's a difference between having a passenger seat and a bitch seat..."
He didn't answer her. He seemed to be shivering more than could be rationalized by the temperature.
"Are...dude, are you shaking?"
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, but that's just...because it's cold, and...I'm not..."
His voice died away. His eyes were wide and not looking at anything in particular. "Are you okay?" she asked.
"I feel dreadful, Delilah. I feel really dreadful." He put his head on his arms on the table. "I feel so terrible right now, Delilah. Oh, God, I feel so bad."
"Um...what's the matter? Are you going to throw up? Are you going to faint, do you have a headache...?"
He wasn't listening. "I have to go to hospital," he said. "I have to go to hospital."
"Uh...are you sure? Really? Are you just freaking out?"
"I'm freaking out, Delilah!" he said. "I can't move my hands!" He lifted his shaking hands and looked them in horror. "Can you get nicotine poisoning?"
"Yeah, but...I mean, I think you can only get it if you, like, swallow tobacco, I don't think just smoking can get toxic levels of nicotine in you."
She felt pretty stupid for not knowing how to drive him home, but Adam drank some water and seemed to feel better by the time their food arrived. He said his head hurt, but he was able to eat.
"Maybe you're having an allergic reaction to something?" she suggested. "Or, what was it that happened to you at the Prep Retreat? Could it have been the same thing? Did you ever find out what happened?"
"Well...I was really hung over that day," he said.
"Didn't you say that the doctors said it was stress?"
"Yeah..."
She wasn't sure if she should pursue it further, but she said, "Wasn't it around that time you and your dad were fighting."
"No, yeah, it was," he said. "It's such a cliché, isn't it?" He laughed hollowly. "That whole...poor-little-rich-kid thing. I mean, do you know what my earliest memory is? The earliest thing I can remember is going up and down the stairs and crying because I couldn't find my parents, 'cos there are so many rooms in our house. I mean, God! I just wish everything about me was not so bloody TYPICAL."
"Yeah, you're the classic example of an only child," she said, pretending to be disgusted.
He laughed, and she felt accomplished. "Of course, the magazines love it," he said. "All that 'allegedly' stuff, and then me coming in as the other woman, it must have been like a gift from God for them."
"Isn't that, like...libel, or invasion of privacy, or something? Defamation?"
"Not if it's true," he said. "And at this point, anyway, I'm probably as good as incapable of further defamation. I know I've ruined your reputation just by being in the same room."
What if there were stealth paparazzi everywhere? Those feminists would really hate her for kissing Adam Harlow, sleazy paragon of threatening male sexuality. But maybe she was just being paranoid. Sometimes she thought about checking the details of her contract to see if it offered her visits to a therapist. Didn't most employers offer that?
In the car he surveyed his splendor in the rear-view mirror. "Ugh," he groaned in disgust. "I look like nothing human."
He looked like a model. But she didn't argue.
"I'm just going to go to my house," he said as he started the car. "I just don't want to drive. But Bailey can take you home probably."
"Okay, that's fine," she said. "Who's Bailey?"
"The driver. I mean, I feel better," he said. "You could stay if you want. I think Gaston is baking today. I don't know, I just...I feel pretty bad..."
"It's no problem," she said. "Who's Gaston?"
"Oh," he said. "He's our chef."
Of course he was.
"Oh, open that ice bag," he said. "I want to see what's in it."
"What's in it?" she repeated, reaching into the backseat for the Superdrug bag. "Why would there be anything in it? They don't come with ice in them, do they?"
"Oh, come on, Delilah, I bought it for my dad," he said. "He wouldn't ask me to buy an ice bag if he had a headache, that's servant stuff. He's only having me do things I don't want to do."
She opened it and didn't know what he meant until she reached her fingers in and found three feet of diamonds. "Oh my God," she gasped.
"Ice," he said simply.
When they got into his house Giovanni could be heard in the next room asking, "Whither our son, my dear?" There was the smacking sound of a kiss. "Have you seen him?"
"Neither hide nor hair," said Ivy.
"So it's been a good day, then."
"Oh! You're a terrible person..."
Adam was visibly unimpressed with this conversation.
The sound of Brian Atwood heels heralded Ivy's arrival. "Oh! You're home!" she said, pulling on a pair of gloves. "Your father's looking for you. Hello, Delilah, how are you?"
"I figured," said Adam. "I got a gift..."
"Of course you did, darling," Ivy cooed dismissively, patting his handsome cheek as she picked up her purse. "Good looks, glamour, talent. And then you got your nose from your father."
"Ho ho!" said Giovanni, appearing in the doorway. "Sometimes, Adam, I'm very glad you didn't inherit your talented, glamourous, good-looking mother's rather lamentable sense of humour."
"Why don't you go and lie down, dear," said Ivy. "You're cross and disagreeable when you're tired."
"Isn't that amazing, Delilah," Adam commented, "how married people notice those things about each other? Why, I never can tell when he's tired!"
"Of all the rotten luck," said Giovanni. "It was a dormant trait, not a dead one. I should have realised when you came home that my luck wasn't that good."
Adam seemed to ignore him, turning to his mother with a pitiful, injured look. "Mumsy," he mewled horribly, holding his abdomen, "can you take me to a doctor?"
She dropped her purse immediately. "What's the matter, sweetie?" she asked, touching his face.
"Daddy is so funny that I think I ruptured my pancreas."
"Oh...!" she said, throwing her hands in the air. "There are too many bad comedians in the world and it seems most of them live in this house..."
She rushed off to some kind of charity event or something, something a typical rich wife did.
Giovanni leaned on the doorframe, taking in Adam's appearance.
"Well, now," he said. "Aren't you looking particularly strapping today?"
"As a matter of fact, I am," said Adam, starting to pull Delilah into another room, "but why would you mention it?"
"Just a minute, Beau Brummel," said Giovanni, brandishing a piece of paper. "What's this bill?"
"I had three blank clothes hangers in my closet," sniffed Adam. "You're the one always on about not wasting."
"Oh, that's all it is with you, isn't it! Spending!"
"Oh, calm down, Daddy, that's what money is for, and you've got plenty of it."
"But not because I spend it!" he sputtered. "That's not what intelligent people do with money! They use it to make more money!"
"To what other end?" asked Adam, and put out his hand expectantly. "Can I have twenty quid, or are you papering your office with it?"
"I don't think so, darling," he said coolly. "You clearly don't know its value."
"You're right," said Adam. "Make it fifty."
"Why don't you try doing some chores, Adam?" Giovanni suggested.
"What on earth would I do with chores?"
"The swimming pool is being drained; why don't you help clean it?"
Adam's lip curled daintily, his delicate sensibilities offended. "But it's dirty," he said, and then looked at Delilah, who increasingly felt as if her presence were intrusive. "I have a guest, Daddy," he whined.
"A guest!" Giovanni repeated. "What a switch from the usual hostages."
"You'll have to excuse me, Delilah," Adam sighed, putting the back of his hand to his forehead. "Strangely, this exorbitant sarcasm seems to be doing rather little for my ailing health."
"Oh, stop it," said Giovanni. "You're too healthy for your own good. You could use a little sickness."
Adam glared at him disdainfully and turned flouncily to the staircase, hitting his foot on the bottom step. "Ouch!" he gasped in pain. "These stupid stairs—!"
Giovanni looked skeptical. "How do you tell the stupid ones from the smart ones?"
"Who put this staircase there, anyway?"
"It's been there since you were a child, and since I was a child, too."
"Well, why didn't somebody warn me?"
Delilah sort of wanted to see Adam's room. She couldn't help but imagine that, where other boys might have pictures of attractive women, Adam might have actual half-naked girls waiting for him, a stable full of also-rans vying for his attention. In fact it did not seem nearly as absurd as it should have to picture his walls decorated with the mounted heads (or other body parts) of his most beautiful or famous entanglements, perhaps one girl lying on the floor like a trophy bearskin rug.
Delilah stepped back for a minute, realizing what a weird, disturbing image her mind had come up with. Yikes! Good thing nobody else ever had to know about it, and her thoughts weren't being relayed to an anonymous audience somewhere...as far as she knew. On second thought, maybe those therapist visits wouldn't be such a good idea. They'd probably think she was crazy.