A/N: I feel the need to put a profanity warning on this chapter. Hopefully the use of certain expletives will not offend to any great degree. Thanks to all who've been reading AND reading and commenting. I appreciate it!
Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox.
-11-
Georgie didn't know what to make of this guy. He seemed kind of cool, which made no sense. Guys his age were never cool, especially to kids like George. They were usually teachers or cops--or store owners who watched you like you were going to rip off the entire back end of their fuckin' place. Just cart it all away in a U-Haul. How stupid is that shit?
The coolest thing about the guy was how Frannie reacted to him. Yee-ow! Wasn't that the fucking bomb? The other guy, the super straight looking dude with the white shirt and blue tie, was Mom's friggin' ideal. He actually cleaned off the table before he left, threw out the pizza (it was gross shit, anyway), gathered up the beer bottles and put them in a recycle bin under the sink. A total fuckin' dweeb. A-:"Nine-to-Fiver", a 'Honey-I'm-Home-er", a "Fuck-Yer-Wife-Once-A-Week-er". Just Mom's type. Georgie was surprised she hadn't pushed Mr. Straight and Narrow into a corner and ordered him to do something about the situation. Mom was good at ordering people around. Most of the time she got what she wanted. Once fools realized it was the only way to fuckin' get rid of her, they caved.
But this guy Greg was real interesting, someone who could give Mom a run for her money. Usually George was good at figuring people out. It didn't take him long to see through a lie or a fake smile or pick up on a weakness. Being a good judge of character allowed him to take advantage of people, make them do what he wanted. Especially girls...and kids with money. But this guy...well, he was going to be a challenge.
After the little meet and greet, Mom dashed off to the hotel with Myrna as her chauffer. And George was not surprised at the speed in which Frannie made her exit. He knew the old bag wanted to get the hell away from Greg as soon as she realized...he was the guy. Myrna's guy. She was at a real loss, totally unprepared. Shit. Myrna's guy was not like anyone she'd ever known. Hell, he wasn't like anyone Georgie'd ever known either.
Fuck.
Greg was...rumpled, looking like he'd just rolled out of bed after a really raucous night of boozing it up. His hair stuck up in little tufts around the back and sides of his head. He was all bristly and stubbly. Not in the neat, Mr. Macho way, but in the 'hell, I don't give a fuck about shaving' way. Sometimes he wore a shit eating grin, other times, Georgie could swear he was possessed by a demon with insane blue eyes that could dig right into your soul.
Wow.
It was going to take the rest of the night for Mom to wonder and complain about this guy, this intrusion into her status quo. But once she got it all figured out, the shit was really gonna slap those fan blades. Hard.
Georgie was glad he'd stayed behind. He hadn't felt like dealing with drama or going to the hotel just yet. What was he going to do there? Sit in the fuckin' room and listen to Mom bitch at Myrna? Go to some twenty dollar a plate restaurant with white linen napkins, where the food they gave you couldn't fill up a damn gnat...and listen to Mom bitch at Myrna? Nah, not when Interesting Greg said he could hang out here.
Georgie roamed the living room, pausing to finger the knick-knacks on Greg's shelves. They weren't like the old lady stuff Frannie insisted on displaying back home. No, Interesting Greg had a pair of shiny brass cannons, a long, sharp bronze thing that looked like an oversized scalpel, a pewter gnome, a bag that laughed when you pushed it. Georgie tactfully eyed all the other cool shit lined up nice and neat. What he really wanted was to take those toys off the shelves, lay them out in a big circle and play with them. For hours. Like a friggin' five year old.
He looked over his shoulder at Greg, who was settled on the couch, watching the tube. Georgie could swear he saw a wicked glint in those eyes, a hint of a sneer on that face. Like he knew exactly what George was thinking.
Yeah, right.
George snorted, turning away from the shelves. For some reason, he didn't want Greg thinking he was just some goofball kid, who happened to be Myrna's brother.
The TV played low; Greg was watching some ancient movie old people liked.
Those movies spooked Georgie. Everyone was in black and white, talking all clipped and fancy, like they were centuries old. They might as well have been ghosts.
He strolled across the room and stopped, noticing how Myrna's books were nestled good and right on the bookshelf. Home was wherever her books were, she'd told him once. Okay, that's fair. He paced, his heavy treads making the floorboards creak. After a while, he gave the place a silent seal of approval, figuring it was as good a place as any for Myrna to live.
Greg's eyes were glued to that TV, but he was watching George...saw everything he did. Somehow, Georgie knew. It was crazy, inexplicable, and it gave George the creeps.
He thought about hiding out in the bathroom. Yeah. He could check out the medicine cabinet. You learned a hell of a lot more about people studying their meds than searching their sock drawer.
"What are you writing?"
The question made him flinch, then freeze in his tracks. He turned his head slowly to see Greg staring at him, really friggin' staring. His right leg had returned to its resting place on the table. One hand was twirling the remote. Maybe the dude could read minds; maybe he knew about the planned search of the medicine cabinet.
Shit.
"I'm not writing anything."
A corner of Greg's mouth hitched up; he continued to turn the remote over and over, flipping it from palm to palm. "Writers carry their notebook with them everywhere. Yours is sticking out of your back pocket. It's pretty easy to see its outline under your jersey."
Georgie squirmed, giving the left half of his butt a subtle pat.
"You figured it's safe next to your ass. "Well hid. Personal. Private. How in-te-rest-ing" Greg enunciated that last word and lifted a brow. "Sooo. What are you writing?"
"None of your fuckin' business," Georgie said with a lot less zeal than usual. He considered returning Greg's stare but fear kept his gaze glued to the slats of the hardwood floor. "You wouldn't understand, anyway," he mumbled.
"Wow. You're right. You're way too deep for me. You must be the poet laureate of your generation."
Georgie lifted his eyes, clenched his fists and swallowed hard, his gaze finally meeting Greg's. Those eyes were laughing, oh, yeah the doctor was so damn amused. Am I that pathetic? George mused, sensing his edge slipping away.
"You write rhymes in that notebook, like all good rappers do."
"I'm not like all rappers."
"No, of course you're not. You're the great white hope." Greg eased his leg off the table and grabbed his cane, which was waiting patiently by the arm of the sofa. "What, no grills? No ho's? What kind of emcee are you, boyeeee?" He leaned hard against the cane and pushed himself up.
"I can rhyme."
"Moon, June, spoon?" Greg asked with a lilt in his voice.
"You're mocking me."
"Read me a rhyme. I enjoy being in the presence of genius." He drew closer, lips tightening, eyes narrowing. "Go on, big man."
George's first inclination was to beg off, to tell Greg he was too tired after the long day to do his best rhyming. But that was a cop out, a, fuckin' girly way of revealing intimidation. Begging off? Yeah, then Greg would know for sure MC "G" was nothing but a first class wimp.
Did it matter?
Yeah, for some reason it did.
"I don't have to read a rhyme."
"No? Ah, I know." Greg gave him a measured look, his tone snide and cutting. "They're all in your head, they're a part of who you are. Such a sensitive, artistic lad."
"Fuck you." The expletive slipped off his tongue like he was saying good morning. But Greg didn't flinch or fix him with a glare. He just scrutinized George like he was studying a fascinating new symptom for an as yet unnamed diseased.
"Rhyme for me, Georgie," he said, finally. "Spit some fire."
Spit fire? Nobody over forty said spit fire. If they did, they sounded like total assholes. But this guy could talk the talk and sound fresh doing it. The words flowed right and natural from his lips.
"I'll pop you one on the spot," George said, already sinking into rhyming mode. "Show you the skills MC "G"'s got."
"Fantastic," Greg replied, putting on a tone that was all upper class and white bread. "Wait'll I tell the fellows at the club."
Georgie took the "stance", legs splayed, fingers outstretched, prepared to punctuate, punch and jab as the rhyme took shape. Words clustered in his head, then rolled off his tongue with practiced ease...
There be the man with the flames on his cane,
Hallowed be thy name,
Say thy name in vain,
Needle in the vain drain,
Doctor put the needle in and drain the pain,
Drain the pain, the pain drain,
Say my name, sing the refrain,
Here to ease my pain,
Say it, say it again,
Play that bastard's game,
Goin' fuckin' nowhere, now I'm doin' the same,
Rat's in the drain,
He's comin' to getcha,
Riding that slow train,
Easing my pain.
Again and again and again.
The rhyme was a machine gun quick, rat-a-tat-tat paced improvisation-the kind that put Georgie's boys in a trance, so good it made the girls cream. Damn he was fresh. Georgie bowed his head, then raised it slowly, mentally puffing out his chest, ready for the accolades.
"That's it?" Greg's face was an expressionless mask. The guy was probably too overwhelmed to let his amazement show.
"Pretty frickin' fine, huh?" Georgie swayed. He wanted to remain stoic and cool but that damn smile was fighting for placement on his lips. Finally he gave in and beamed.
"Pretty damn corny."
Slowly he deflated, drifting back to earth, like helium balloon with a pinhole in its side. "What the hell would you know about it?"
Greg shrugged and held out his hand. "Give me your iPod?"
"How do you fuckin' know I have an iPod?"
"No emcee who thinks he's worth his own self congratulatory crapola would ever leave home without it." He made a 'gimme' motion with his hand. "Give."
Sneering, Georgie shoved his hand into the deep front pocket of his shorts and brought out the iPod and earbuds. "Here." He thrust them into Greg's waiting hand. "Don't mess with it."
"Keep the earbuds," he said, tossing them back at Georgie. "I don't need to hear this shit."
"What do you know, old man?"
Snorting, Greg turned the wheel, checking out the contents of the little box. "So, your picks to click are wonders like Chingy, Canibus, Kanye West and The Game?"
"They got mad skills."
"They suck."
"Come off it." Georgie scowled, trembling, doing his best to hold back his rage. "You don't listen to rap."
"I've heard the good, the classic and the horrible." He tossed the iPod back to George, who snagged it from the air one handed. "Your collection rates a minus two."
He pushed past George and entered his bedroom, leaving the door ajar. George peered through the opening, watching Greg set his cane against the nightstand. He pulled down his sweat pants, then leaned against the wall and steadied himself by resting one hand on the dresser. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out of his pants, then lurched over to reach for his jeans that had been tossed over a chair in the corner. The glimpse of Greg's thigh was enough to make Georgie rear back and gasp. It was like someone had taken a knife and gouged out the skin, digging away, leaving a long, angry looking indentation. Questions, distasteful comments, and a few inane jokes crowded inside his head. But he discarded most of them, saving a few for another day.
It took some time for Greg to get those jeans on. He sat on the end of the bed, using his left hand to guide his right leg into the pants. It looked like a ritual, something he'd practiced long and hard to perfect.
Georgie decided he never wanted to be a friggin' cripple; he'd be better off dead.
Greg stood, zipped his fly and buttoned the button. "Might as well come in, George," he called without turning toward the door. "You can gawk in here as easy as you can out there. Plus there's popcorn."
A terrible heat rose from Georgie's neck to his cheeks. He lifted his head and swaggered into the room, feigning a self assuredness he sure as hell didn't feel.
Greg didn't look at him. Instead he moved to the dresser, gathering his wallet, keys, spare change and a wad of bills and stuffing them into his pockets. Myrna's perfume and a collection of her brushes and powders took up a small area next to a man's hairbrush and a couple of vials of pills. Georgie's blood roared in his ears. His gut clenched as his palms went cold. There was something intimate here, something dark, private and secret: a well guarded world of rumpled bed sheets, musk and sex. His brow furrowed as his tongue made a slow trek across his upper lip.
"Hey."
"What?" Greg frowned into the mirror, giving his hair a perfunctory brushing.
"This where you do my sister?"
Their eyes met for a moment. Then...nothing. Greg's gaze flicked back to his reflection as he finished his grooming.
Spinning on his heel, George let out a long breath. He smirked and smoothed his jersey with two hands. Yeah, there would be no doubt now that Georgie was the man. He shut the doctor dooooowwwn. Now who's corny, who's the fool, who's the-?
His legs were suddenly two traitorous sticks of skin, muscle and bone. They wound around each other and the obstructive force that had magically appeared to thwart him. As he cried out, he realized his control over the limbs had somehow been wrenched away. He wobbled, then toppled over like some sick old fool. Now he was looking up not down. His hat had been thrown clear, lost for the moment. Greg loomed over him, twirling his cane, one foot pressing against MC "G's" heaving stomach.
"You tripped me, asshole," George spat.
"Your mouth can be your best friend or your worst enemy." Greg chucked the tip of the cane under George's chin, exerting just enough pressure against his throat to make it go dry.
"You're an old cripple," George rasped, sounding like a weakling. He was shaking. At this moment he despised himself. "You can't do nothing."
"You forget, Georgie. I know the human body like you know your rhymes." His smile was gentle but that look in his eyes could have scared off a pack of wolves. "And armed with that knowledge, there's no telling what I can do."
"Uhhhhh."
Greg was like one of those guys in the old black and white films: sinister and terrifying.
"You get my drift, George?"
"Yeah." Shit!
The pressure of the cane eased only slightly as Greg's eyes did that soul drilling thing again. "Now that you're my captive audience, let me tell you what is and what will never be."
"Uh..."
"It was ve-ry bad to disrespect your sister like you just did. Wasn't it?"
"Unh."
The cane tip trembled against Georgie's windpipe.
"Wasn't it?"
"Unh...yeah."
"Sooo, you will never, ever speak about her that way again." Greg paused. "Let me hear you say, 'Sorry, Greg.'"
"So-rry, Gre-eg."
The cane twisted, pressing harder and deeper than before, causing Georgie to croak.
"Say it like you mean it."
"I'm sorry, sorry, sorry," he squeaked.
"Now, over by the dresser there is an envelope containing ten ten dollar bills." Those blue eyes widened, drawing him in. "It can all be yours."
"Unh?"
"Unh." A hint of a smile played on Greg's lips, then vanished. "The catch is...that cursing is out. O-U-T. While you're here your mouth will be as clean as the inside of your wallet.
Georgie's mouth fell open.
"Every time you mess up, and I know you will, you lose one of those precious ten spots. Hell, you'll probably be in the negative numbers by the time you head for home. You'll owe me money." His chuckle was nasty and all-knowing. Georgie wanted to lay the guy out, deck him good. If his boys were here, this whole scenario would be playing out in a much different way...
"You got it?"
"I guess." Georgie's gaze traveled to the dresser before meeting Greg's eyes again.
"Don't even think about lifting what doesn't yet belong to you. Understand?"
"Yeah."
"Good, " Greg removed the cane from George's throat as he offered his hand. "Get up."
Like a restless sparrow, George's eyes flitted from the outstretched hand to the cane to Greg's legs.
How easy it would be.
The image of himself wrenching the guy's hand, pulling that lanky body down so it hit the floor like a lead weight, intrigued and delighted him. He sneered, imagining he could hear Greg's moans, his pleas for help--
"Georgie," Greg said softly.
"Huh?"
"Don't even think about that either."
George blinked. His smile withered and died.
Glowering, Greg drew back his hand. "I'm leaving in three minutes, with or without you." He turned on his heel and walked out of the room.
Pushing himself off the floor, George grimaced, brushed off his jersey and found his hat. He could still feel the pressure of Greg's sneaker against his stomach, the twist of the cane's rubber tip against his throat. He glanced down, mouth twisting in anger as he noticed the black sneaker tread marking the lower half of the Lakers shirt.
"Shit!" he groaned to himself.
"Ninety," Greg called.
George threw a caustic look at the door, then quickly adjusted his expression to one of calm compliance.
Hell, he really had to watch his back. The guy could probably see through walls...