~Chapter Two: Unintentional Lust~
BASS
Fuck me, he thinks morosely. This wasn't supposed to happen. She's a mere child! What in God's name has he been thinking, following her around? Oh, wait. The former general shakes his head. He doesn't believe in God. Maybe that's why he's found himself in this unfortunate predicament. To an outside party, his feelings might be viewed as….unseemly. And rightly so. For fuck's sake, he's twenty-one years older than her! And yet, at the age of 41, Monroe can't remember ever feeling as infatuated with a woman as he is with his little spitfire, Charlotte Matheson.
He and Miles were hormone-ruled young adults, usually drunk and sometimes a little bit stoned, while Charlie was an innocent toddler attending kindergarten. Miles had been his best friend for years, and he had looked on Charlie with affection and amusement for most of his life. But now, after seeing her again after nearly fifteen years, he finds that his feelings for her have altered drastically. Gone are the days of training wheels and sippy cups. Charlie is tall and lean now, her jeans slung low on her prominent hips. Her mane of blonde hair reaches halfway down her back, and Monroe finds that her figure has filled out quite nicely. She's just so goddamn…alluring!
Grumbling to himself, Monroe flings his stick into the waning fire, knowing that by now Charlie should have returned. He knew she wasn't fit to travel again, much less by herself, and he thought that by letting her make her own decisions, it would be that much sweeter when she came back, defeated and probably lightheaded, to take a seat by his side near the fire. But he should have known better. Charlie is the most stubborn person he knows. She's probably out there somewhere, sitting by the side of the road, too tired to move on any further. His jaw clenches. He'll have to go look for her.
Stamping out the fire, Monroe sheathes two knives and two throwing stars into the waistband of his jeans. It's only been fifteen minutes, but that's more than enough time for Charlie to have come back to him. He's angry at himself for even allowing her that much freedom. He should've shot down her declaration that she was leaving and tied her to a tree instead. After what happened at that seedy bar, he doesn't trust Charlie to travel alone. She's more vulnerable than she understands.
Stowing his pack beneath a crop of dead leaves and rocks, Monroe sets out, blending into the wilderness seamlessly. Over the years, he's become a pro at stealth and evasion; the only way someone will find him is if he allows them to. Sliding through the trees and tricky foliage, Monroe takes in the empty road with one sweep of his calculating eyes. Nothing seems to be moving in either direction, a sign he considers somewhat positive, if not (in a sense) a bit ominous. Lack of movement means zero chance of a threat appearing, but that also signifies that Charlie has most likely already collapsed by the side of the road…somewhere. It's so dark out, he just might miss her.
But then, luckily, something catches his attention up ahead. It's a wavering form, definitely human. He picks up his pace, ever mindful of being as quiet as possible. The waning moonlight glints off her blonde hair like sparks on metal, and he nearly breathes out a deep sigh of relief. She's okay. True, she hasn't made it very far (and the fact that she hasn't turned around still bothers him greatly) but for the most part, he's just thankful that nothing obscene happened to her while he briefly allowed her out of his sight.
So relieved is he that he accidently steps on a small branch, snapping it in two. The crack echoes in the silence, and he sees Charlie jerk suddenly up ahead. She's only ten feet away. She glances swiftly over her shoulder, but apparently passes it off as a bunch of small animals and continues on her slow way. Monroe realizes he's been holding his breath. He lets it out slowly, his eyes narrowing on the figure in front of him. Now, how will he convince her to return with him? That's going to be a feat in and of itself…
But just as he considers jumping her from behind, Charlie stumbles. Her feet, which have been dragging for the last thirty or so yards, tangle, and she trips and falls to the ground. Her body makes contact with a muffled wump, but she doesn't move or attempt to right herself. Ah, Monroe thinks. So her breaking point wasn't so far off after all.
After a minute of impatient waiting, he steps out of the woods and onto the road, careful at first to keep a wide birth around Charlie, in case this is a carefully thought-out setup. All his years as President of the Monroe Republic have taught him that paranoia can, at times, be his best friend. But the girl truly seems to be out cold. Monroe kneels down beside her, checking her pulse. Slow, but it's there. Hefting her up into his arms, mindful of the knives strapped around both of their waists, he carries Charlie back to their smoldering campsite, where he lays her down in the back of a lopsided wagon with a broken wheel. It won't be many hours until she wakes up, probably not even until mid-morning. Monroe is perfectly fine with that. He needs that time to think about things, consider their precarious position and where they stand.
Gathering his pack, Monroe slings it into the back of the wagon and jumps in, situating himself against the back wall. Man, he wishes he had a cigarette. Unfortunately, now that he's been reduced to a mere commoner with not a single compliant soldier willing to do his bidding in sight, a thin piece of straw will have to suffice. Positioning it in the corner of his mouth, he leans back against the hard wooden wall of the wagon and waits for morning while Charlie sleeps solemnly before him.