Chapter Two
Consciousness was slow to come. Irene stayed on the edge of it for a long, long time, until the feeling of light against her eyelids grew too acute to stand anymore. She floated up slowly, unaware of anything but the little flashes across her face, and finally stirred. Her brain was just as sluggish as her body and it fought against thinking, moving, and feeling. Irene's limbs felt as though they were immersed in syrup and it took every ounce of strength in her body to just slowly crack open her eyelids. Clouded and sleepy, her vacant eyes stared up at a white, textured ceiling for a minute before the rest of Irene's body woke up and started moving. Thinking was too difficult at this point. Her brain ran on autopilot and tried its hardest to move her legs and arms. They were bare; Irene was lying in a heap in her bra and underwear, a thin sheet covering her body. The source of the light that had irritated her was coming from the window to her right. An early-morning glare streamed in through the blinds and somewhere a bird was chirping loudly. It was the sight of her neatly-folded clothes on a bureau directly across the bed that sent a rush of adrenaline flowing through her body and brought the whole situation back to her.
"Ungh," she groaned eloquently, trying her damndest to sit up.
She succeeded in getting herself into a half-sitting position and collapsed against the wall, exhausted from that simple exertion of energy. From this vantage point Irene was able to see that she was in a sparsely-furnished room that had only a bed, chest of drawers, and bureau with a mirror over it. The walls were painted a light blue. It was obviously someone's guest room, and there was a door leaning to a bathroom, and another door that was closed and presumably led out into a hallway. She swallowed hard, closing her eyes against the nausea that was creeping up on her. Soon, though, it became too persistent to ignore. To make it to the bathroom was going to take quite a bit of work, but Irene knew that she had to start heading there or things would not be pretty. She gingerly tried sliding out of bed and promptly fell on her face, the carpet floor knocking the breath out of her lungs. For a moment the pain was greater than the nausea but that quickly dissipated and the need to vomit returned in full force. Irene half-crawled, half-drug herself to the bathroom, mentally cursing Slade every inch of the way. Whatever he'd shot into her had obviously fried her system. Hell, she'd probably overdosed on the stuff. By the time she reached the bathroom, the contents of Irene's stomach were well on their way back up and she barely made it into the toilet. Her stomach was curled up in knots by the time she was done heaving, the half-darkness of the unlit bathroom providing a welcome respite from the cheerful morning sun. Leaning against the cold porcelain of the toilet, Irene reached up a shaky hand and flushed her sickness away, still unable to convince her body to rouse itself into a full sitting position. Her head was still lolling against the toilet when the bathroom light came on, eliciting a loud groan from the nauseated girl. She glanced to her right; a pair of black army boots came into her field of vision, their owner impatiently tapping one foot.
"Clean yourself up," Slade said emotionlessly, tossing a washcloth on the ground beside her, "Come downstairs when you're through."
He turned on one heel and left her alone with her thoughts, his entrance and exit too abrupt for Irene to even come up with a reply. A small knot of anger formed along with the pain in her stomach. Asshole. All of this was his fault anyway. Irene had always been a cranky sick person. Even when she was a little girl, it was as if she needed to take out her discomfort on the people closest to her, even if it wasn't their fault. This time was different though—this time she had a legitimate culprit for her misery. Irene grudgingly took the washcloth and wiped her face off, some of her strength gradually sneaking back into her bones. It took a several slow minutes to raise herself into a standing position as she leaned against the sink, clutching it for support like an anchor in the storm. When Irene finally looked at her reflection she gave an unhappy little sigh. She looked like crap. Her hair was curly and frizzy and unkempt, the result of being slept on without being combed first. Her skin was oily and a pimple was forming on her chin, as evidenced by the small, irritated red area that had staked a claim there, and to top it all off, she'd grabbed her oldest white bra and black underwear from her drawer the previous night. She looked like a crack addict. A crack addict who would never get to go home again. Irene had nothing but the clothes on her back to remind her of what she'd left—
"My cat," she breathed in horror, her eyes widening as she thought of Watson.
Irene moved quicker now, stumbling out of the bathroom and yanking her clothes off the bureau, clumsily putting them back on as she scanned the room. Slade, the son of a bitch, had probably given him away to an animal shelter by now. A child's delighted shriek caught her attention and she walked back to the bed, leaning against it to look out the window. The view was gorgeous—suburbs with emerald grass, trees, and beautiful, modern houses. But her gaze quickly zeroed in on the yard across the street, and the little boy and his mother playing in it. The child was kneeling and wrapping his arms around something fat and black and fuzzy, and she didn't have to look twice to know that it was her cat. Gritting her teeth, Irene clumsily made it to the door, leaning on the frame for support. She paused for a moment in the hallway to get her bearings, the hardwood floor cold beneath her feet. The whole house was light and fresh and clean, but Slade and his strangely decent decorating tastes weren't on the forefront of her mind at the moment. He'd said to come downstairs, but if she ran into him she probably wouldn't get to go anywhere. Creeping down the steps as quietly as possible, Irene found herself in what seemed to be the back of the main living room. She could hear him walking through the downstairs hallway and talking on the phone. The whole place seemed cold and artificial, as if it was something out of a magazine or a commercial setup in a furniture store. A really nice furniture store. Irene's eyes flickered over the dark brown leather furniture and large, flat-screen tv as she soundlessly tried to figure out where to go next. The main entrance was in front of her, through a foyer, and before he could catch her Irene wove her way through the couch and recliners and snuck out the door.
"Shoes would have been smart," she muttered under her breath, mincing across the concrete path that lead from the door to the road.
Irene pasted a shaky smile on her face and tried in vain to smooth her hair down. She must have looked a sight to the suburban mom across the street, but that didn't matter right now. All that mattered was getting her stupid cat back and hiding him so that Slade wouldn't toss him out. As she got closer, stepping into the grass with a relieved sigh, Irene could see that the mother was wearing a Ralph Lauren pony dress, her brown hair in a tight bun, and the child was wearing a polo and khaki shorts. He couldn't have been older than twelve, and he was currently tugging lightly on Watson's tail. Watson, strangely enough, was allowing it.
"Hi," she croaked, clearing her throat, which was dry from disuse.
The mother smiled at her, eyes flickering up and down Irene's form as she tried to gauge her. Shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, Slade's captive glanced pointedly at the brown-haired boy and Watson.
"Hello, is this your cat?" Soccer Mom replied pleasantly.
She nodded and the boy looked up before scooping Watson into his arms and holding him out to her. He was purring as she took him back, as if she never paid any attention to him and he needed to run to some kid to get petted. Irene stood there awkwardly for a moment, adjusting the bulk in her hands before Soccer Mom broke the silence.
"So," she said, looking past Irene toward Slade's house, "I take it you…know John?"
"I'm his little sister, I just came in for a visit."
Her quick thinking got the desired response and Soccer Mom beamed. It was obviously what she wanted to hear, and Irene had rightfully assumed that "John" was Slade's alias in this town. The entire place seemed to be the typical wholesome, suburban neighborhood, and Irene knew that any other lie would have drawn some unnecessary attention her way. Slade might wring her neck for this particular fabrication, but it was the best she could do on the spot—"I'm his girlfriend" wouldn't go over too well.
"It's nice to meet you," Soccer Mom replied, "I'm Stacy, and this is Thomas. Honey, say hello to John's sister."
"Hi," the kid said, looking at her with interest for the first time.
"We love having your brother in this neighborhood," Stacy continued, lowering her voice, "We just feel a lot safer knowing someone from the Bureau is here if we need him."
Irene nodded and pasted a smile on her face, heart pounding in her ears from the fabrication. The Bureau? Slade had them convinced he worked for the FBI? Slade had them convinced of anything? Stacy talked about him as if they were good friends, but it was really hard to see Slade socializing in the suburbs. It was hard to see Slade doing much of anything with this square, suburban mother and her WASP-y family.
"Nice to meet you too," she replied quickly, "I have to go, thank you for keeping my cat entertained."
"You're welcome," Thomas chirped, "Can I play with him again later?"
"Sure," she lied, "We'll see you around."
"Bye!" Stacy replied, flashing her one last smile before Irene turned around and began walking back to Slade's house.
"I hate it here," she muttered to Watson, "I didn't move away just to live in a stupid Stepford neighborhood again. Everyone's so fake. Including Slade."
She paused for a moment to look up at "John's" two-story house. It was a respectable size, not too small but not too outlandish for a single person to live in it. She had to admit that it was good-looking, made of dark red brick and with white trim around the edges and done in French style. But that wasn't the point. The point was, he had yanked her away from everything and everyone she knew, and for what? She didn't know yet. When Irene got back to the front door it was still cracked, like she'd left it. That was good, it obviously meant Slade hadn't noticed her absence yet. Gingerly easing her way back inside the house, Irene held her breath as she turned around and pushed the door shut with her foot.
"Back so soon?" Slade asked icily.
Irene jumped and took a deep breath, trying to gather her courage before turning around. She slowly moved to face him, excuses already on her tongue before her jaw dropped. The man standing before her couldn't have been older than thirty-five, wearing a black eye patch where his right eye should have been. It contrasted starkly with his white hair single, piercing blue eye. If he hadn't been glaring angrily at her, Irene would have been more interested in his form-fitting white t-shirt and blue jeans. The man standing in front of her was tall, classically handsome, and ridiculously fit. He was, in a word, gorgeous. Unfortunately, the only thing the angry scowl on his unmasked face told her was that she was in for a world of hurt.