Hey, it's the author again. I just want to remind you that I will not be describing any characters that were in the last chapter or in the movie, unless it is a necessary part of the story. I am fairly sure that you have watched the movie, so don't complain because you already know what the original characters look like. Any new characters will be properly described and introduced. Just so you know. If you have any issues with the story, the review button is currently available for clicking. WARNING: This story is rated M, and I intend to completely use the rating to the limit. You have been warned.
Warm water ran down my body, the individual drops running together in a stream and tracing my body. I stretched my leg out in front of me, my fingertips just reaching my toes. It was clean and smooth, no scars, nothing except for my healing shoulder wound and a crescent tattoo around my naval. Drawing my hands up my leg, they ghosted over my slim hips to my lower abs. Tight and firm, they were a testament to the training I did in order to survive. I glided my hands over my breasts, mentally noting the faint tan lines, and caressed up my neck. Burrowing my fingers in my hair, I drew them down and let the water run through the chocolate brown strands.
My house phone rang, one of those annoying tones that instantly made me close my eyes in irritation. I reached around the curtain to grab the phone off of my sink counter. Leaning against the shower wall farthest from the pouring water, I pressed the 'talk' button and held the phone up to my right ear.
"Hey, Ross." I said in a laid back tone.
"You know, if you keep answering the phone when you're in the shower, you'll end up-"
"Shocking my ass, I know. So whacha need?" I interrupted.
"Finally gave up on grammar, Rayne?" I narrowed my eyes, that wasn't Ross's voice.
"The hell I did, Tool, I just decided that it was useless around you guys." I retorted. In the week we had been back, the guys had purposefully used horrible grammar just to spite me. I had given up trying to correct them yesterday as I couldn't take it anymore.
"So how're your injuries? Are they healed yet?" Ross asked.
"My right shoulder won't be fully healed for a month, but I'm off the sling and able to use it if I need to. All my bruises and scratches are gone. All in all, I can fight just fine, that's the joy about being ambidextrous." I paused a moment, an idea forming in my mind.
"We've got another r job, don't we?" I asked, my heart sinking. I liked my job, being badass and all was fun, but I had wanted a chance to unwind after the pirate incident.
"How'd you guess?" Tool asked. My heart sank even more.
"Because you and Ross wouldn't call just to ask me how well I'm healing." I said in a monotone. 'I wish they would though. It's not like I have anyone else.' I frowned at the thought. Mentally slapping myself, I got back on topic.
"So what's the job?" I asked, forcing myself to be enthusiastic. I didn't want to cause drama, mainly because I hate being emotional. It makes me feel weak.
"Ross is gonna check it out tomorrow. Wanna go?" Tool asked.
I thought it over for a moment. Go, and potentially become a hormone induced idiot? Don't go and remain emotionally stable? Go, and listen to a potential asshole, and bite his head off verbally? Stay, and remain a calm, non-violent person?
"What time?" I asked grinning to myself.
"Noon, tomorrow. Barney'll meet you at your house at ten."
"Classical noon, huh? See you Ross, Tool." I hung up and set the phone back on its hook. I turned the water off, and stepped out of the shower stall. Grabbing a towel, I dried off then dropped it to the floor. I wiped off the fogged mirror, and looked at my face. My face was an oval shape with my chin adding a soft point. My almond shaped eyes were not too close together or too far apart, and my nose was straight and slightly turned down at the end, though not enough to notice automatically. My lips had close points on the top and were slightly longer on the right side because I had a tendency to smirk. Although I was only twenty eight, only ten years younger than Ross, my forest green eyes held the same look Ross's did. It was a look like we knew too much for our age. Mine was one of those faces that only needed make up to enhance my features. All in all, I knew I was very pretty, but I never let it go to my head.
Turning from my reflection, I opened the door connected to my bedroom, and let the steam out. I never turned my fan on in the bathroom, my parents always told me it would ruin the wooden floors and cause mold, but I like the extra heat. Grabbing a hair tie from the counter, I tied my hair in a low pony-tail and exited the bathroom.
I went to the wooden doors of my small closet, and opened them with a flourish. I pulled on sapphire satin underwear, the color complementing my olive skin. 'I don't know why I wear this shit. It's not like I have anyone to wear it for.' A nagging feeling told me I wore it for the possibility of having someone to wear it for. 'Enough with this philosophical bullshit.'
I exited my bedroom wearing a cropped black tank top that revealed my tattoo and baggy army-style cargo pants with a thick leather studded belt. The tank top had a soft quality to it that you could only get by wearing something for a very long time, and my cargo pants was threadbare in the knees and had small holes where the belt loops were precariously attached, showing a little of my colorful boy shorts. Running my hand through my hair, I poured myself coffee and shifted through my mail. 'Junk. Junk. Notice for overdue library books. Junk.' Sighing, I ran my fingers through my hair again. I went back to my room, and picked up the four overdue books, looking over the titles. They were all fiction, the only genre I liked to read. Toll always insisted that I should read motivational non-fiction, but I hated reading that shit, it's so boring. 'I didn't even get to fucking these. Damn pirates.' I thought venomously. On my way out of my house, I shoved my feet into leather combat boots and grabbed my leather riding jacket off of a hook by the front door.
I lived in a small house, under a fake name to keep any enemies I made on the job away. It had been up for three years and the owners had been desperate to sell it, so I got off pretty cheap. It was located in a suburban area of L.A, about ten miles from Tool's shop, and the traffic wasn't that bad compared to the inner city. The neighboring houses were modern-looking, concrete sided, metal roofed houses, but mine was more old-style which was exactly what I had been looking for when I bought it. From the outside the house appeared to be made of river stones and the roof was made of asphalt tiles. The driveway was cracked concrete with a few weeds struggling to survive in the spaces. The window frames were ebony wood that, surprisingly enough, hadn't rotted from the L.A humidity. Attached to the house, next to the driveway, was a shed that was completely mismatched to the apparent theme. The walls were concrete slabs, the roof and the small double doors were metal. The door handles were wrapped in thick iron chains with a heavy duty padlock holding the ends together.
Walking to the shed, I set down my library books, pulled a key from my pants pocket and unlocked the large padlock. As soon as the padlock fell to the ground I yanked open the metal doors.
The two o'clock sunlight shone brightly inside the shed, revealing my treasured motorcycle. It was a Bourget 2008 Viper 2 model, and it was my pride and joy. The wheels had chrome detailing, made to look like flashing daggers and I kept them highly polished. The seat was padded black leather with blue flames stitched in a pattern that spelled out my two initials, R.C for Rayne Clowe. The paint job was custom, with an evening blue background that faded to a medium blue at the back. Black flames with electric blue accents twisted their way to the tail lights, and a skull with a raven and 'Expendable' written below it was airbrushed on the gas tank cover. The skull I had done myself, with skills I had gained from helping out at auto shops.
I picked my books back up, and walked to the back end of my bike. A leather bag was attached behind the seat, and if I removed it, my bike could carry two people. I unzipped the main pocket, placing my books among spare lights, several kinds of wrenches, spare gas, and a pair of leather riding gloves. I took out the gloves, pulling them on, and then zipped the bag closed. I grabbed my black full-face helmet from a small shelf that I made specifically for it and put it on. I swung my leg over my bike's seat, and grabbed the handle bars. I flicked the kill switch on, inserted my key, and turned the ignition on, listening to the bike's dull roar. I watched all my gauges pin themselves and return to zero, then pressed the start button.
Waiting a little for the engine to warm up, I pulled my cellphone out of my coat pocket and checked the screen. There was a missed call from the library, as was expected, and a missed call from an unknown number. The person had left a voicemail, so I dialed it and listened. Almost immediately I pulled it away and pressed the delete button. 'Damn fucking woman, calling the wrong fucking number to yell at her bitch of a mother, dammit!' I continued to mutter curses as I flipped the kickstand up, pulled the clutch lever, pressed the shifter down to first gear, released the clutch slowly, and felt the motorcycle move forward. I didn't bother closing the shed doors, the only things that had been in there were my bike and my helmet. Leaning back, I put my feet on the foot pegs, and twisted the throttle.
I was done with the library, the damn fine had been almost seventy bucks because I had been gone for four months, including the month I spent recuperating because of my shoulder. '60 cents a day, damn library's trying to swindle me, I swear.' I thought to myself, pushing out of the glass doors with two new books tucked under my right arm, and my helmet under my left. As I walked, I noticed a bunch of gothic wannabe rockers crowded around my bike. 'Goddammit, not again!' I mentally groaned to myself. 'God help them if they don't listen to me the first time.'
I zipped my pockets closed so nothing would fall out if this became ugly. I pushed my way between two twenty-year-old punks with neon Mohawks and too many face-piercings, only to see something horrifying. Another twenty-year-old punk with a neon pink Mohawk, but this one was wearing a completely leather studded outfit and leaning backwards on my bike. Narrowing my eyes, clenching my fists, and scowling, I was absolutely furious.
"I would suggest, for your sake, that you get off my bike and make sure you don't leave scratches behind." I said, my voice calm and ice cold. The rocker opened his eyes and when he saw me, his smirk grew into a shit eating grin.
"Hey hot stuff, I know I'm sexy but damn, stare any harder and I might burn." He said, trying and failing to come off as suave and sexy. To me, he just sounded arrogant and juvenile. Glaring at him, I put my books in the seat bag and calmly set my helmet down. If anything, his grin got bigger. Walking alongside my bike, I trailed my fingers up his leg, past his hips and stopped at his belt loops. Curling my fingers around it, I gently bit my lip and gave him a seductive look, tugging slightly on the belt loop. He sat up slow and got off my bike, obviously thinking he was going to get 'lucky'.
Less than five minutes later, I rode out of the parking lot. Nobody noticed the group of unconscious rockers until half an hour later. It was determined they were all beaten, but nobody was ever accused.