A/N: Sometimes a story takes a long time to germinate, and sometimes the muse strikes you over the head with an anvil and suddenly you look like Wile E. Coyote after a run in with the RoadRunner and you've got all this paper surrounding you and: lo, behold, it's a plot. Unfortunately, I don't always get that Wile E. Coyote moment. . . . but I did this time. LOL. Enjoy.I own nothing but the plot, the original characters and maybe some minor grammatical errors. This is for randomwriting (thanks for the support!!!), because she's the best. Everything else belongs to someone way richer than I am. Pooh.
Nine
Calleigh emerged from the waking trance she'd been in since they started cutting through the early evening traffic on I95 heading out of Miami. Tim pulled the Ducati into the first gas station and easily hopped off. He stretched, popping bones and muscles, while Calleigh slowly tried to do the same.
Before he reached for the pump, her pain-filled gasp caught his attention and Tim turned to face her. The misery she tried to mask hit him hard and guilt flooded through him. Instantly, he was at her side, helping her off the bike. "Shit! Cal, are you okay?"
"I think I've been better." Despite the pain and throbbing in her thighs, Calleigh smiled up at him. "I'll do, just as long as I don't have to get back on for a while."
"About that, Cal . . . " Tim wouldn't look at her, a frown marring his features.
"What?" She walked around a little bit, flexing her toes and trying to get the blood pumping again.
"Ah. . . did you notice where we are?" Still avoiding her gaze, Tim filled the gas tank.
"Not really. I was kinda just enjoying the ride. Why? Where are we?"
He sighed, not really wanting to see her expression when he broke the news. Trying to avoid answering her for as long as possible, Tim fiddled with the gas tank.
"Speed?" Calleigh winced at her own tone of voice and she looked around. Not recognizing anything, she glanced up at him, then down at her watch. Blinking at the time, Calleigh didn't believe they'd been on the road for so long. "Tim?"
Another sigh broke from him and he kept his eyes averted. "We're in Daytona."
Leaving her there, he went inside to pay for the gas.
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Gonsalvo himself announced her move into a different room. He pushed open the door to her current space, extravagantly dressed and elegantly groomed. Sorcha knew immediately he was on his way out and surprised herself with her extreme indifference.
"Come with me."
Giving her a moment to gather up the baby, he ushered her from the room.
This house, like the one where Lopez had been killed, was a private estate, gated and secured, with private beach property. Sorcha had barely gotten a fleeting impression of the house upon their arrival days before, and then only a small part of the grounds.
Spanish style architecture dominated this estate, the spacious rooms accentuated by a mosaic tile floor and cream colored walls. Had she been other than a captive guest, Sorcha might have had more of an appreciation for it. As it was, all she did was make note of the placement of the furniture and the location of the rooms.
Oddly enough, none of the additional guards were present. The only other person in the house appeared to be Hector, which eased the tight band constricting her chest. The presence of too many new faces made her very uneasy. That her wariness always proved wise did nothing to help Sorcha's peace of mind. If anything, it worsened.
A growing sense of – she wouldn't necessarily term it doom – but something portentous was coming. The air around her always felt oppressive, no matter how cold the air conditioning was kept; she found it harder and harder to catch a deep breath. Her nerves were strung taut, her body always aware of the men around her. She wondered sometimes, if this were how a trapped animal must feel, when the hunter approached, gun drawn and aimed for shooting.
Hopefully the doom was not her own.
Gonsalvo led her through the house, moving swiftly. With a flourish that made the situation incongruous, he opened a set of double doors. "This is for you."
The tile floor continued into the room, which was obviously a private, separate living area. Two small white leather couches faced each other across a wide glass and iron coffee table. An entertainment center was at the far end of the room, the glass and iron of the coffee table replicated with the addition of dark wood. It was a handsome room, but it left her feeling a bit more unsettled than before.
Leading her through the rooms, Gonsalvo pointed out the amenities as if she were an honored guest instead of a valued hostage. She did not speak, knowing any sarcasm or disinterest on her part would result at the very least her removal back to the old room. She shuddered to think of the other alternatives.
A small kitchen with maid's room was adjacent to the sitting area, and beyond that was a private, enclosed garden with a covered walkway and a burbling fountain in the center. Two bedrooms opened into the garden and Gonsalvo magnanimously allowed her to choose one.
He caught her by surprise when he said, "Hector will be here with you. There is a maid who will cook and clean."
Sorcha stared at him, a confused look on her face. She quickly schooled her expression, merely nodding her acknowledgment.
Apparently satisfied with her response, Gonsalvo left her there.
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He felt her eyes boring into his back all the way inside to the pay for the gas. Tim hunched his shoulders, anticipating the inevitable explosion of Calleigh's temper. He though about hiding out inside, but he realized sooner or later she was going to give him what for, and he'd much rather there be as few witnesses as possible.
Bracing himself for the inevitable, Tim headed back outside.
Calleigh was standing by the Ducati, her hand resting on the seat, the helmet in her other hand, staring up at the night sky. She was facing partially away from him and by the set of her shoulders he could see she was still in pain.
He walked up beside her, glancing up to see what captured her attention, then down at her face. "Hey."
"Hey back," she answered.
Well, he thought, that was certainly non-committal. "I'm sorry."
"For what?" She dropped her eyes to look at him.
He was facing away from her, almost as if he were afraid to look at her. "For dragging you out here."
"Tim, I'm a big girl. I could have asked you to stop, and I certainly could have said no to begin with. I don't mind really." She smiled, laughing softly. "I just don't know if I'm ready to get back on this thing just yet."
"You're gonna need to, if you wanna get back sometime tonight." He still avoided her gaze, this time staring at something over her right shoulder.
"I don't know if that's the wisest thing to do." She blew out a breath, gathering her courage to say what needed saying. "Look, I'm tired, so you must be. I'm hungry, too." She moved then, gaining his eye. "Why don't we get something to eat and crash for a bit?"
"Okay. I could eat."
She laughed, the sound lightening the tension between them. "Speed, I have never known you to turn down food."
Took him a minute to get what she was saying, but when he did, he just chuckled with her.
"Fair enough."
"So, we're gonna go get some food, right?" She looked at the bike, a slight frown marring her features. "That means I have to get back on this beast. . . . "
"Well, just for a little bit longer. There's a place I usually eat whenever I'm up this way. Kitchen should be open for another hour. You gonna be okay?" He watched her stare at the bike.
"I'm game."
"Foods really good. I promise."
"Well, you know, I've trusted you this far. In for a penny. . . . "
With that she smiled up at him and hid her hair in the heavy silver helmet. "Let's go, Speedle. You promised me food."
He shook his head at her resiliency. Settling his helmet on his head, Speed helped her onto the back of the bike. Two minutes later, they were on their way.
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Muriel waited quietly while her husband of only two years dragged the garbage cans out to the curb. It irked her no end whenever he did it, because the grating of plastic on the road surface was like nails on a chalkboard. She braced herself for the noise, clenching her teeth together and holding onto the doorjamb with fingers crippled with arthritis and age. She was seventy-seven now, and George couldn't know how his habit of dragging garbage cans irritated her. He wouldn't understand anyway. George was four years younger, and she was damn lucky to have him, even with his irksome habits. She could put up with them. After all, anything was better than being alone.
She was still waiting for the noise to start when he reappeared in the kitchen, his tanned face blanched of all color. Her first thought was Oh, dear God, he's having a heart attack, and he spoke quickly, his words not helping her panic.
"Muriel, dear, could you please dial the police."
"Why? What's wrong? Should I call your doctor?"
He shook his head at her obvious panic. It was understandable, after all, since her first husband had just dropped dead in his tracks. "No, dear, I'm fine," George replied.
"So then why should I call the police?"
He moved toward the phone himself, holding up a hand to halt her questions. As he reached for the phone he said, "I'm fine dear, but there's a head in the bougainvilleas."
"What?"
"You heard me, dear." When she started to get up, George motioned her to stay put. "Don't. It's pretty rotten."
"Oh." Muriel fanned herself, feeling faint and very lightheaded. He took one look at her while he was on the phone with the 911 operator and requested that ambulance she had mentioned.
George had a feeling she might need it.
to be continued. . . .