Alright, I've been working on 'Fallen' for... like, three months before I started posting, so I have a bunch of chapters written and I'm trying NOT to post them too quickly (because I don't know where to go with this story) but I can't help it. So I hope you all enjoy this chapter, because I do.
p.s. - whitelilly, your LT one-shot should be up soon. Tonight, probably.
Music: nothing's gonna change my world
Out of all the people he'd ever befriended, Taylor Townsend was definitely the strangest.
And taking Seth into consideration, that was saying something.
He just couldn't figure her out. With Seth, he always knew what was coming. He could always predict what his brother would say – or, maybe not the exact words, because the boy had a way with phrases, but the general response. Not with Taylor. He could never tell whether he'd get some bitchy Newport comment, or something actually really insightful.
Maybe that's why he kept coming back.
It was a routine now. He'd come over after dinner to check up on her and they'd talk for a while, then he'd leave. He didn't tell Seth or Summer or Marissa – because God forbid he talk to another girl – or even the Cohens. Well, the Cohens knew he was checking up on her, that's what got this started in the first place. They just didn't know the extent of what went on.
He didn't tell them anything, because she asked him not to. He just listened to her – she told him about her awful job, how Marissa kicked her out of social committee, how she barely paid the bills this month. He helped her sell her mom's car – she hadn't wanted anyone to know, so he recommended a place and picked her up there after she sold it.
He still wasn't sure why he was doing it, though. Marissa would get so pissed if she ever found out, and he was sure Seth and Summer would never let it go. But it felt nice to help someone who didn't ask for it, who didn't need it. It was nice not having to worry about being a good person, because Taylor sure as hell didn't expect it of him. She didn't seem to expect anyone to be a good person.
Alright, so she was a little depressing sometimes with her lack of faith in humanity, but it got him out of the house, where he'd just be sitting around with Seth playing video games and waiting for Marissa to call.
Because he had to face it, his life was basically spent waiting around for Marissa Cooper.
God help her, she was actually smiling.
She couldn't help it, though. She felt… light.
The money from her mom's car would last her a while, she hadn't thrown up in over a month, and she'd gotten a rhythm down at work. If she'd known, before, what human interaction could be like, she'd have tried harder to make friends.
She wasn't actually sure Ryan was her friend, technically. They didn't talk in school, they didn't watch movies or play games or… do whatever it was friends did. She tried to think of what friends did on TV – besides stab each other in the back and fight over boys.
It didn't matter. She was Taylor Townsend – she'd make her own rules. She was just grateful to have someone who knew secretive places to sell your mother's car and how to fix sinks. Her kitchen sink had clogged up last week and he'd saved her a plumber's bill, for which she was eternally grateful.
Of course, she was Taylor Townsend, so instead of thanking him like a normal human being, she told him it figured he'd be good at manual labor.
Because he used to be poor, get it?
She really was going to hell.
But he'd laughed and told her she was a bitch and everything seemed to work out.
She couldn't keep relying on him, though; she couldn't keep sitting around and whining all the time, which was why she was here – at her old lawyer's office. She took a deep breath and went in. The lobby was such a contrast to Sandy's – sleek, modern, clean.
Sandy's felt nicer, though.
"Miss Townsend," the secretary greeted in her nasally voice. "Mr. McMahon will see you now." She nodded and went into his office and didn't sit down, even when he gestured for her to.
"Now, Miss Townsend, what can I do for you?" He gave her a smug smile that made her want to slap him.
"You could stop trying to mess with me, for starters."
"I'm not sure what you're talking about," his mouth said, but she heard 'no'.
She saw right through him.
"Stop holding Mr. Cohen up, stop trying to convince the insurance company her death was suicide. That's just low, even for you."
He laughed lightly and stood up, moving around the desk. She held her ground and glared at him. "Now Miss Townsend, you make me sound horrible. I'm not."
"No," she sneered. "You're just a sad old man who likes to hit on girls half their age a week after their mother dies. And then when they won't do what you want – because, ew – you try to make their lives a living hell. You're right, that's not horrible at all."
Anger flashed in his eyes and he gave her a tight smile.
"Hey, where were you?"
He stood up and brushed his jeans off as she came up the steps, pulling her keys out of her purse. He'd come over at his normal time, but she hadn't been there, so he waited. She brushed past him without a word and went in. He followed.
"I brought leftovers," he held up a bag – carefully prepared by Kirsten.
"I'm not hungry."
He watched her put a hand over her stomach and he frowned. She told him she'd stopped throwing up a while ago, but she didn't look so good right now. "What happened?"
"Nothing. Go away. I'm fine."
"Well, that was convincing," he monotoned, leaning up against the counter as he watched her stare at the wall.
"I went to see my old lawyer," she started, her voice low. "I told him to leave me alone. He tried to... nevermind."
"What?" He stood up straight, feeling all the muscles in his body tighten. 'Nevermind' had a definite implication, but he made himself calm down – this was Taylor Townsend, she could be exaggerating. Or lying outright.
"He didn't," she turned to look at him. "I kicked him in the shin and left." She took a deep breath, then started pacing. "Shit!" she hissed under her breath. "He's never gonna let this go now. And he'll probably find some new way to torture me…"
"Taylor," he interrupted. "You have to tell Sandy."
"No. He'll just worry and want to prosecute or something."
"Yeah, that's kinda the point," he ground out. He didn't feel like dealing with her independence shit right now. He wanted her to tell Sandy, so someone would do something. So he wouldn't go down to the guy's office and beat the living shit out of him.
"I can't deal with that right now," she sighed, still pacing. "He didn't actually do anything, and if Sandy tries to accuse him, it'll just… make everything a bigger mess than it already is. I just want to get my mom's stuff sorted out and get on with my life. I don't want to have to worry about some perv who gets too handsy when he doesn't get his way."
"That's stupid," he growled. "You can't let him get away with it."
"He didn't," she protested, frowning. "I kicked him in the shin, remember?"
"Ok, kicking him in the shin and him getting sent to jail? Not the same thing."
She stopped pacing and gave him a small smile. "Thank you, really. I don't think anyone's ever been angry on my behalf before, but I'm fine. I know I should do what's 'right', but I'd rather not deal with it. I can't afford to prolong this and I can't afford more lawyer fees."
"Fine. Can I at least pound the shit out of him?"
"No."
"Fine."
She smiled again. "Thank you. And don't tell Sandy any of this."
It was their standard goodbyes. Don't tell Sandy any of this. And he'd always say…
"Sure."
She followed him to the door and watched him leave. It was their standard goodbyes, except this time he wasn't so sure he could follow through.
She took a very hot, very long shower after Ryan left.
She needed to scrub off the feeling of Phil McMahon – the feeling of him pressing her against the closed door, his hand shoved under her skirt, his hot breath on her neck as he asked her if she didn't want to fuck him, why would she wear a skirt when she came to see him?
After her shower, she went downstairs and opened the bag Ryan had left. It was like a packed lunch for a little kid – a turkey sandwich, a few cookies in a plastic bag, and a can of Coke. She felt an infinite rush of gratitude when she took out the soda. Because Kirsten had given her Coke.
Regular.
Her mother always made her drink diet.
She ate and tried to think of anything other than her old lawyer. It didn't really work. She still felt his hand on her leg. Even when she closed her eyes and shook her head – like that would somehow make the memory fly out of her brain – she still felt it.
When she went up to her room to sleep, she tried to see if she could replace the feeling. So she put her hand on her leg – right where she still felt him – and tried to memorize how her own hand felt. It worked for a while, until she took her hand off.
She sighed, resigned to the fact that it wasn't going away. Stupid Phil McMahon. And when she closed her eyes, she could still see him.
Alright, if he wasn't going to go away, maybe she could make him. In her head, she stood to the side as Ryan – what was the phrase? – pounded the shit out of him. She watched her old lawyer fall to the ground and she smiled at Ryan and he smiled back.
"Hey, where were you?" her soft voice called to him when he got out of his car and he closed his eyes to see if she'd go away.
"Just out doing some errands." She came to stand next to him and wrapped her arms around his neck. "What are you doing here?"
"Waiting for you," she sighed. "I've missed you."
He still felt the thrill go through his stomach, still felt the way his heart raced whenever she touched him. Even her words made his head spin, but he detangled himself and stepped back.
"You were the one who wanted space," he reminded her, trying to think clearly over the buzz in his head.
"I know, but…"
"No." He sighed when she recoiled, looking hurt. "Look, I can't do this right now. I just… I have stuff to do."
"Fine, I'll leave," she pouted and he could feel the pounding in his head start. He couldn't deal with this. Not tonight.
"Marissa." She stopped and turned back to him, hopefully. "You have to decide. I'm not doing this anymore. Do you want me or not?"
"It's not that simple…"
"Yeah, it is. It's black and white, yes or no. Go home, think about it. Give me your answer in school tomorrow."
She didn't say anything else as she left and he waited until her car backed out of the drive to go inside. He was probably too harsh with her, but he couldn't help it. His head hurt and he was still fighting with himself over what he was supposed to do about Taylor.
He could lie to Sandy about the money thing, because he knew – from personal experience – that a person could live with little money. It wasn't vital, it wasn't life-threatening. And he kept the fact that she was getting sick from Sandy, because she swore it was just stress and she stopped. He kept the work from Sandy, because that was her business and he was actually proud of her for being proactive about her life.
But rape?
Even attempted rape; even just some perverted old guy getting too grabby with his client. He wasn't sure he could hide that.
He wasn't sure he wanted to.
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