Alright. Here we go. Abworkma, even if you're my last and only reader, I will carry on just for you.
Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoy.
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Chapter 4
Sore. Everything was sore. More sore than usual.
There were voices in the background, pressing through the steady pounding resonating in her ears.
Her left shoulder cried out to her with a disordered determination, begging for relief. A sharp pain wedged firmly between bone and muscle. She could only assume it had acted as her own personal wakeup call. Pulling her mind from the unwelcome early morning fog.
Shifting slightly she could tell it was a mild strain at the worst. A cramp at the most. At least it was only her shoulder. Nothing was worse than a butt cramp.
She sat up from her slumped position. A stray post-it screaming its reminder from her cheek.
She felt like shit. Straight to the point. No need to beat around the bush. She and shit were on a hand-holding basis at the moment. It could've been worse and she knew it. But that didn't mean she had to feel grateful.
She was alone in her office and if she wanted to dwell and scowl over the fact that she felt like a big piece of shit pie then she—
"Oh, umm, I'm—I'm sorry Miss Davies. What—what are you doing here?"
The brunette's hand swatted at her face, pulling the post-it from her flesh. She regarded the young woman standing in the doorway. Harsh light poured in around her slender frame, distorting her features against the dimly lit office. The voice was faintly familiar.
The brunette glanced quickly to the red glow on her right. 5:14am. A little earlier than usual. Three hours earlier.
"I umm, had so much work that I just came in last night and stayed here."
"Oh, okay."
The brunette pressed a stiff hand over the silver switch on her desk. Light flooded the room. Her eyes adjusted quickly. Focusing on the figure framed against the door.
"Shelly? What are you doing here?"
"I've—I've been here all week Miss Davies."
"Oh right, right. I know that." She had no clue. Guess her week had been crazier than she thought. She vaguely remembered telling Kyla something about Shelly though. "I just meant what are you doing in this early?"
"I—I like getting in at five. Then I can take a longer lunch. Is—is that okay?"
"No yeah, yeah. That's just fine. Is that my paperwork for the day?" She nodded to the messy manila folder held firmly between nervous fingers.
"Oh! Yes. And your messages." Shaky hands positioned the folder on the brunette's desk with a hesitant neatness.
Any acknowledgement stilled on the brunette's tongue as the voices from earlier gained her attention. Now unhindered by her fatigue, the crisp words rushed hastily to her ears. Enthusiastically announcing their intentions. Desperate to slit the black façade. Her masked escape.
"…but one thing is certain, the masked vigilante has fans and their numbers are on the rise. After the release of surveillance footage captured last night just before eleven pm, buzz about the black-clad woman has increased tenfold. Merely hours after its release, the footage went viral."
The brunette's body tensed. Her head snapped wildly toward the flat screen resting on the wall.
"The mystery woman can be seen attacking four men, all armed with knives, after they attempted to mug a couple on the corner of Seventh Avenue and Twenty-eighth street."
She watched apprehensively as the footage flashed in front of her. This was the last thing she needed. More attention meant danger. She didn't need more criminals gunning for her than there already were. And she most certainly didn't need reporters dragging on her heels, vying for their own bit of limelight.
"She easily overcomes two of the men within the first fifteen seconds of her appearance and it takes no more than forty for her to disarm and restrain the remaining two. She appears to have sustained minor injuries during the encounter. A blow to the head and a possible knife wound to the arm but easily flees the scene. Despite the footage and rumors of her activities, the question of whose side this woman is on remains on the minds of many New Yorkers. The New York Police department has issued a warrant for her arrest while numerous papers are offering large sums of money for a personal interview."
Reporters and the police. Lovely. Just lovely.
And a warrant? It definitely added to her mysterious and dangerous persona but she'd be lying if she said it didn't ruffle her feathers a little. What was she supposed to do, let those people get robbed? Please. The NYPD was just pissed because she was showing them up. And her ass looked better doing it.
"Miss Davies?" Her attention reverted hastily back to the body in front of her. "You're uh, bleeding. From—from your ear just there."
Her hand wiped at the identified ear, returning with a messy red smear.
"There's some on your arm too."
She looked down quickly, noticing the red tinting her white sleeve.
Blood. Her blood.
It had seeped through the bandage. All over her shirt. Her white shirt. White shirts were now banned from her wardrobe. Dirty traitors.
"Oh, I umm, must have fallen asleep on that arm and bled on it. Could you schedule an extra hour for me during lunch? I'll run out and grab a new one."
"Actually, you—you have an interview with….Times Quarterly over lunch. I can get you another shirt before then if you'd like?"
"No, no that's alright. I'll just wear the jacket over it." She really needed to keep extra clothes in her office.
Adjustment to her list: Blueberries, coffee, clothes in her office.
"I was just uh, going to go out and grab a quick coffee before everyone got in. Did you uh, want me to get you anything?"
"Yeah actually, that would be perfect. Could you get me a large latte with a double shot of espresso and three bagels with cream cheese from that shop across the way? Take the company card and get whatever you want."
"Oh uh, just—" She pressed a hand over her ear piece. "Miss Davies' office. Yes, she is. May I ask who's calling? Okay yes. Hold for one moment please." Her eyes momentarily met the brunette's. "There's a uh Mr. Dennison on line one for you Miss Davies."
"Alright thanks Shelly." The woman dipped her head shyly as her legs hurried toward the exit. A sigh forced its way from between the brunette's lips. She reached out to her phone, pulling the jet-black receiver to her blood-free ear.
"Aiden." Her voice wary.
"Ashley holy shit! Have you seen the news?" The words crackled as they made their way through the ear piece.
"Yeah, I have. Is that what you're calling about? Because I'm really not in the mood to discuss this."
"Ash this is a big deal. You're everywhere."
"Yeah okay, I know it's a big deal. It's going to make my life a living hell."
"I don't know, it might not be a bad thing."
"Oh really? So having reporters and the police riding my ass isn't going to make my life more difficult?" She pulled open the door to her mini fridge. An empty carton of blueberries and expired chocolate milk. Nothing. Of course. Stupid fridge. Where was Shelly with those bagels?
"Well, yeah that's not ideal. But now that your name is getting out there in a big way, think of how nervous criminals will be."
"That's exactly what I don't want. My name getting out there. Kinda the whole purpose of the mask Aiden."
"You know what I mean Ashley."
"Right."
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You sound tired."
"Yeah well…"
"Do you want to meet up for lunch? We can get burgers."
"I can't. I have some interview meeting I have to do. But trust me, I'd much rather be eating a tray of burgers."
"With me right?"
"Yes with you."
"Good. I'll see you tomorrow. Usual time and place?"
"Alright."
"Hey Ash?"
"Yeah?"
"Have fun playing the coked out slut today."
"Shut up."
Her hand scrawled messy black letters across the white surface.
Piles of paperwork and incomplete contracts covered the expanse of the oak surface.
A tired hand reached out to the cup next to her. Numb fingers wrapped around its circumference. Taking comfort in its familiar feel and unvoiced promise of vitality.
It pulled away too easily from the surface. Showing little resistance. Empty.
She sighed. That was her second coffee of the day. It wasn't even noon. That did not bode well. She was going to have a long afternoon and an even longer night.
She glanced down at her rebandaged arm. The wound wasn't bad. A light graze but a bleeder. Her body wasn't used to sustaining injuries very often. Of any variety.
Defending more than one person at a time was always a little more challenging. More so when they wouldn't stay together. Separation always had a way of spreading her thin. Physically. She could only be in one place at one time. People never seemed to follow logic in a stressful situation. Especially when they felt compelled to defend their loved ones.
Her father had once told her that love forgoes all reason.
She didn't disagree with that. She'd seen the truth of that message manifested on numerous occasions. But unlike her father, she saw the danger behind the words. Personal feelings could get in the way of rationality. Life. And not just her life. On a few occasions she'd needed to make calculated decisions. Decisions that she'd justified by her acceptance of numbers over feelings. Reason over love. Survival.
A series of clipped knocks resonated from the door. She voiced a distracted invitation.
"Miss Davies, Times Quarterly is ready for you in the conference room."
"Alright. Thanks Shelly."
The brunette pulled the tight, black jacket over her aching shoulders.
Her body pressed through the stale air of her workplace and down the incandescently lit halls. Her mind circled the remainder of her schedule. She needed to fit sleep in there somewhere. Her recent activity level was too high, even for her. There were just too many things on her list she needed to do. Work related and others.
Her eyes fixated on the hinged wood in front of her. She collected herself. Letting an arrogant eyebrow raise delicately before twisting the brass handle and pushing forward.
She stepped into the vast room. Waiting expectantly for an introduction. Her body positioned with a deceitful air of self-approval.
"Ashley Davies." The deep voice was accompanied by a firm hand. "Thank you so much for meeting with us. I cannot express how honored Times Quarterly is to do your first article since you've come back. My name is James Wynters and this is my photographer—" Her eyes shifted from the man over to a familiar figure.
Blonde hair framed the perfectly shaped face. Unamused eyes met hers. The body before her screamed its disdain. Revealing the encounter for what it was. Unwanted.
The brunette's lips parted quickly. Surprise stripping all swagger from her voice. "Carlin?"
"You two know each other?"
Her eyes returned to the man. His curious stare jolting her mind. Pulling the veil back over her features.
She cleared her throat. A slim eyebrow rose. "Know might be an understatement Mr. Wynters. Carlin and I—"
"Are mutual acquaintances through my father." The blonde's nippy reply cut the suggestive statement short. Her attention never focused on the brunette. Her words meant only for her colleague.
"Precisely." She hummed, sending a sly wink to the man. She could practically feel the waves of anger radiating from the blonde. Crashing against her. Heating her skin. Yet any physical manifestation of acknowledgement remained absent. "So, shall we get started?"
"Certainly." The man's eyes shot between the two women before turning to the small device in front of him. A red light indicated its rudimentary yearning for answers. "I'm here with Ashley Davies in her first interview in over a year. Thanks so much for meeting with us today."
"It's my absolute pleasure." Her lazy smirk and glance went unheeded by blue eyes. Their attention forcefully consumed by polished oak. Determined to demonstration their obstinacy. Their dismissal of the brunette.
"So, Ashley," her eyes drifted languidly to the owner of the voice. Sight now the only sense not tuned dutifully to the blonde. "I'll start with the question I'm sure our readers are dying to know. After being on hiatus for so long, will you be releasing a third album anytime soon?"
"You know, not in the near future. I need some time to unwind. I've had an incredibly unexpected year and one of my primary goals right now is to enjoy myself after being cooped up for so long." She could hear the photographer fidgeting. Fingers playing against the wood.
"Right, and that's completely understandable. You left rehab sooner than you'd projected in your statement to the public just under a year ago. I can only assume it went well?"
"As well as rehab can go." Her eyes drifted to the young woman in front of her again. Her hands and eyes were now occupied with her camera. Capturing images of the interview.
"You were recently rumored to be at Street31 nightclub, are you finding it difficult to stay sober while maintaining your rocker persona?" Her gaze never returned to her questioner. Continuing their search for blue with new vigor. Determined.
"There are plenty other things left for me to indulge in. I'd say I'm coping just fine. Can't cut all the fun out of life, right?" Distance was imperative with the blonde. She knew that. It was necessary. But the strain she felt for the woman's attention was almost unbearable. She should be relieved that the blonde was ignoring her. Part of her was. But most of her wanted something. Anything the woman would give her.
"Right. And speaking of fun, you and Lohan seem to be spending quite a bit of time together. Recent photos show you two getting cozy at Gray. Any comments on a possible relationship?"
"Trust me James. A relationship isn't anywhere on my radar. Though Lohan does know how to entertain a woman, I'll give her that." Nothing. Usually comments like that allocated some sort of indignant scoff from the photographer.
"I don't doubt it. On a different note, Davies Records appears to be booming. You and your sister seem to have transitioned well into ownership. I think it's safe to say your father would be proud."
"Yeah, the label is doing extremely well. We've signed over thirty artists and bands in the last three months." She knew she should to let it go. Keeping the blonde distant was the whole point of irritating her after all.
"Anyone to keep an eye out for?"
"We have a lot of talent at our company and all our artists know how to put on a good show." But usually offending the woman kept her away and gave the brunette some of what she wanted. The attention may have been wrapped in disgust, but that's what made it safe.
"Well I think it's safe to say that, whether through a personal record or not, Ashley Davies will continue to impact the music industry and entertain fans." Plus, its packaging didn't make her want it any less.
"In more ways than one." Absolutely nothing. No reaction. No eye roll. Nothing.
"There's been talk recently of your involvement in the highly anticipated renovation of Club Catalyst in Midtown, what can we expect when the club reopens?"
"The purpose of the club is simple. It's a place any New Yorker can go to have a good time. We want it to be a Land of Oz of sorts, a crazy world where people can just let go. Explore their fantasies." Anything. Something. She could throw her camera at her face for all she cared at this point.
"Well New York is certainly buzzing about the club's reopening. Anything else in the intriguing life of Ashley Davies that we should know about? Any mysteries to reveal?"
"When it comes to you guys I'm an open book. Any change in my life and my fans are always the first to know." Alright. She was going crazy. Just something. Anything. Come on.
"A fact we all appreciate. I wanted to thank you for meeting with us today Ashley and I think I speak for the public when I say we can't wait to see what America's favorite rocker has in store for us next." Alright. She was desperate now.
"I assure you I won't disappoint." All her attention shifted to the photographer. Body rested languorously against the table. Eyes consumed every curve of the figure before her. Lips drawn up in a seductive smile. "Pleasing my fans has always been my top priority, isn't that right Carlin?"
That did the trick.
Blue eyes scorched into brown.
The photographer's jaw clenched. Anger spreading in resolute ripples across the taut muscle.
"I wouldn't know, and I can honestly say I hope to never find out. James, I'll meet you in the lobby."
Her angry footfalls bounced around the silent conference room. Encircling the two remaining figures in their fading rejection.
The brunette turned amused eyes to the journalist. Punctuating their carefree air with a smile.
"Some women James, let me tell you. Some. Women."
It was hot. It had been hot for the last few days.
The breeze felt nice. It raised the hair from her neck. Cooling the hot flesh beneath.
Her legs dangled idly from her perch. Swinging in an unsteady rhythm.
She was waiting patiently in her usual spot. Watching expectantly for her usual mark.
She flexed her left arm. The pain had dulled considerably along with the bleeding. She had yet to mend the tear in her suit. The white bandage peaked from between the dark leather.
She brought the bright red straw to her lips, pulling the cool ice cream into her mouth. Chocolate shakes. They were her feel good food. She'd had a particularly stressful day. Stressful enough to warrant the chocolatey indulgence anyway.
Her eyes scanned the sky. Searching for the hidden pinpoints. She couldn't see them but she knew they were there. Her trips into the country acting as proof.
Her eyes fell back to the street. Just in time to see the blonde crossing beneath her. She was later than usual. Much later. The brunette figured she would be.
She was working on a major project. A celebrity piece. Her celebrity piece.
The masked woman trotted along the worn ledge above the photographer. Her steps were light as she shadowed the figure below.
She paused briefly as her body reached the edge. Giving her extra time to ensure her cover. Keep her movements silent. Unobtrusive.
The muscles in her legs bunched. Their time-tested strength pushing her over the gap. Leaving her clinging placidly to the adjacent ledge. Strong arms pulled the rest of her into position. Her body easing onto the surface.
The woman looked back down toward the subject of her pursuit and every muscle in her body froze at what she saw.
Nothing.
Empty.
The street was empty. Lacking one very important piece. One very important person. One very important blonde person.
She remained motionless. Frozen in frantic immobility.
All her senses strained for any indication of the blonde.
Her head snapped to the right. Ears catching on muffled voices and echoes of movement. The alley.
She doubled back and swung her body around the corner. Landing unsteadily on a narrow windowsill.
She peered at the movement beneath her. Eyes adjusting to the shadows of the backstreet. A primal growl rattling her frame at the sight below.
Rage scorched through her veins. Charred its emblem into each nerve. Slashed viciously into every fleshy tissue and organ. Brutalizing her insides. Leaving her body to tremble mercilessly in its fuming wake.
The leather-clad woman wrestled with herself to focus on the three figures pinning the blonde against the brick building.
Forced herself to focus on their locations.
One holding the blonde. Two set further away. One to the left. One to the right. About six feet apart.
Her brain scanned all possible options.
The safest option. Fire escape.
The most dangerous. Immediate drop.
The quickest option. Immediate drop. That was enough for her.
She pushed herself away from the building furiously. Her body twisting as the hot air rushed over her. Arms flailing frantically. Struggling to maintain control over her plummeting form.
The drop was higher than she was adapted to. Than her body was trained for.
Angry eyes trained on the figure closest to the photographer. Her arm reached out. Snaking around the assailant's neck just as her feet met the ground behind his unwary back.
Her heels screamed their agony as they crushed into the pavement. Unaccustomed to such a descent.
Her legs staggered slightly. Back jarred from the fall. Unable to stabilize her form.
She wrenched at the man's neck. Yanking his heavy body over hers as she careened backwards.
A stodgy thump signaled the collision of skull and concrete. Resonating off the worn walls of the alleyway. Bouncing from one crumbling brick to the next.
A heavy gurgle fell from unconscious lips. The man's only warning to his startled companions.
The masked woman sprang to her feet. Her face warping faintly at the sharp pain slicing through her heels.
She was aware of the blonde's presence behind her. Still hugging the brick.
Her leather-bound feet shuffled only slightly before she lurched forward. Plunging her practiced shoulder into a jean-clad knee.
A tormented scream pierced the air. An echo of bone assailing bone quickly followed suit as the broken joint buckled beneath the man's thrashing weight.
A harsh kick stormed his warped cheek. Cutting off the scream. Sending his limp form to the unforgiving ground.
Lithe shoulders squared to the last of the three men. Her ire crackling in the still air of the alleyway as she regarded her target.
His hand reached meaningfully behind him. Groping for something pinned between belt and skin. A pleased smile twisting his features.
A small cry from behind seized her attention. Chest tightening in fear she whipped around. Anxiously connecting her eyes with the blonde's. The woman was unharmed but her face was colorless. Eyes wide in obvious fear. Her gaze fell to the woman's mouth. Trying to catch the incoherent words stumbling from pale lips.
She felt a bulky arm enclose around her throat just as the photographer uttered a strangled scream.
Cold metal came to rest on her temple. The arm flexing forcefully around her neck. Breath hot against her ear. "Not so tough now, are we princess?"
She ignored the man strangling her air supply and looked to the woman across from her. "I need you to get out of here."
"No, I'm not leaving you." The reply was shaky but stubborn.
"Trust me, this is like eating cake for me just—"
"Shut the fuck up, both of you! Blondie drop your purse and get the fuck out of here." The brunette was jerked upward. Feet momentarily torn from the ground. "Victoria Secret and I here have a little fun to get to. Isn't that right sweet cheeks?"
"I hate to disappoint you. But tall, dark, and ugly isn't really my type. Plus, I don't date feminine men."
"Believe me honey. I'm more man than you can handle." An unwelcome tongue slithered up the side of her face.
"Either you've got a Jimmy Dean breakfast sausage pressed against my back or you're compensating."
"You know I never was a fan of a girl with a mouth on her. I'll just blow your brains out and fuck the living daylights out of Blondie over there." Her body tensed beneath his grip. "Oh, we don't like that very much do we love? Don't worry, I'll end you quick so you don't have to watch me pound into your girlfriend."
Without a second thought the masked woman forced her hand up. Thrusting the silver weapon away from her temple as she pulled against the arm around her. Ducking her head as best as she could.
The gun fired a reactionary shot. Sending a bullet by her face. Its unexpected path merely hairbreadths from tearing flesh. The stench of sulfur signaling the proximity of its passing. Close. Too close.
Her body was jerked to the side as the man twisted in surprise. His frame jostled by her unforeseen strike.
She pulled an arm up. Readying her elbow to connect with the startled face.
A flash of orange attracted her attention. Pulling her eyes from the man to the woman in front of her.
Her brown orbs landed on the tube held in the blonde's hand. Its nozzle pointed directly at the two bodies grappling for dominance.
The leather-clad woman opened her mouth to protest. Desperate to stop the other woman's actions.
"No, no, no, don—Oh my mother of all that is holy ffffffff—gaaaaaaaaaahh!" She lurched forward. Buckling under the weight of the heavier body. Her former attacker now writhing on the ground next to her.
She clawed at her eyes. Rubbing desperately at the offending substance. The burning offending substance. The burning offending torturous substance that a certain blonde sprayed in her face. Right in her face.
She rolled to her back and kicked blindly at the man next to her. Dispelling his moans and movements with several irritated blows.
"Oh my God. I'm sorry. I didn't mean—he had a gun—I thought he would—I'm so sorry." The words were rushed. Concern jostling their delivery.
The brunette lurched to her feet. She needed to clear her mask. It was irritating her eyes.
Correction. The pepper spray that that woman had sprayed into the depths of her retinas was irritating her eyes. The mask was just making matters worse.
Apparently she had found another thing the small strip of leather didn't mix well with. It should've come with a warning. Avoid water, sweat, and pepper spray.
She should just invest in goggles. The ones with holographic sharks on them.
"Wait! Are you okay? Please don't go!" The brunette ignored the shouted words. Jogging wearily down the alley.
Blurred vision pulled her to a corroded fire escape. She hoisted herself up and tore the angry leather strip from her eyes.
Unsteady arms and legs drew her to the top of the building. Moving as fast as the dissipating adrenaline would allow.
Her eyes fluttered. Welcoming the light breeze unleashed by the rooftop.
Her body staggered to the edge of the structure. She leaned over the side. Eyes peering.
As she caught sight of a blonde figure running through the doors of the subway station her knees buckled. Dragging her exhausted form down to rough slating.
Her chest heaved. Drawing in fresh air. Clearing the searing reminder of the orange tube's angry bowels.
She sat slumped against the molded brick barrier. Willing her mind to function. To form something other than the question responsible for her immobility.
Did Spencer Carlin just mace her face?