Nowhere Man
-By Yo-yo
Disclaimer: C chappie #1.
A/N: I am taking liberties with the movies and their release dates. We're just going to pretend that they all existed within the same timeframe. And by the way, this chapter's rating is bumped to an M. Be aware.
Helter Skelter:
"Those who are tardy do not get fruit cup."- High Anxiety
I have imposed a self-mandated solitary confinement.
In the halls, I've become untouchable, no one dares approach. I ignore the daily noise pollution until my footsteps against the polished floors become the deafening march to my next destination. I don't take lunch anymore. I sit in the library, secluded in the most abandoned corner, disinterested in the prattle of my peers.
At home, the sentencing is imposed upon me, but no more limiting. In my bedroom it is as though the support staff has been outfitted with velvet treads on the soles of their shoes. No noise filters itself through my door. I cannot hear Ana passing by, a closing door, even the delicate chime of the doorbell has been muffled, turning every room into a soundless enclosure where He is the only one allowed to peek and see if I am still alive.
For three weeks, I have not even had contact with Jan. His attempts on my behalf have been put down by His ego. After the conversation at Jan's house, He has made sure that His will be enforced. As soon as we returned to the house, after my drunken diatribe, the walls in my bedroom were stripped to a startling bone white, the alcohol cleared from all the nooks and crannies, leaving nothing but an aluminum alarm clock to document the passing time.
My world has been arrested at the demise of a business deal.
The only thing that keeps me going arrives on little scraps of paper in my locker.
"The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what you share with someone else when you're uncool."- Almost Famous
The straightness of her back curves awkwardly against the straight lines that dictate the architecture of the Gilmore's estate. As she sits on the concrete pillar, her midnight blue dress holds her spine into place. I don't know the material, something like satin, holds like a corset around her torso, with no straps keeping it in place. But above the lines of the material, her shoulder blades and shoulders curve over her bust as she raises the cigarette to her lips.
She is moving with practiced ease, thinking it makes her look like an experienced smoker and I don't want to break her heart. Practiced ease never describes a proper smoker. Only a novice would savor the flavor of the tobacco or focus on the sexy emission of smoke from her lips. A true smoker is an addict, focused solely on the nicotine, the flood of calm that slows and thickens the blood. A real smoker is never at ease. They are constantly in pursuit of the nicotine hit to pacify the need for another cigarette. They smoke fast and hard and without pleasure.
She's too green to see that we're both acting.
"So I see you're still grounded?"
Her eyes don't look in my direction as she emits another steady stream of smoke. She moves her torso away from me to flick the ash from the end of her cigarette and I cannot help the wave of lust that flushes my system. She may not be an actual smoker, but she is damn sexy playing the part.
I nod, watching as her body settles into its previous position, my eyes following the light on her skin, in her dress, reflected off her jewelry and into her eyes.
"Do you know when you'll be free?"
I shrug, finishing my cigarette and stuffing the bud deep in the potted plant on the end of the balcony.
As I return my gaze to her form, I watch as she shivers in the night air. It is February and we have been sitting out here for a little while. Like a chivalrous man, I remove my sports coat and wrap it around her shoulders. At this, she finally looks at me.
"You can see that I'm wearing like fifteen pounds of material, right?"
"Unfortunately, your shoulders are bare." I smile moving close and place my arms beneath the coat, to capture some of her warmth.
"Oh, I get it now," she smiles, finally finishing her cigarette. I take the bud from her fingers and place it in the pot with mine.
"Just an excuse to get close."
She laughs out loud, and so do I.
"You're a jerk at school."
She shifts her hand to my knee.
"I know," I sigh, realizing my fingers have begun making circles above her dress, on the warmth of her skin. "I'm supposed to be."
She nods and looks away again.
I don't know if her hand on my knee is meant to stop the motion of my fingers, but as we sit in silence, her thumb begins to trace its own circles.
This isn't the first time we've been in a situation like this one, where my hormones have gotten the best of me, but this is the first time that she has attempted to reciprocate. I want to push further, as usual, but as I turn my face towards hers, and she moves her face toward mine, the look in her eyes and the firm yet easy grip on my thigh lets me know this is all it can be.
With our noses, and lips so close, I can almost taste her. Our warm breath mingles and we can both feel the pull of attraction.
"Tristan…" she breathes, her eyelids lowering to my lips, her eyelashes fluttering against the bridge of my nose.
"I…" I begin.
"No," she shakes her head, bringing her eyes back to mine, our lips so close, perfectly aligned to touch… "I don't know how I'd manage without you."
Her words shock me from her, my back straightens and my fingers fall from her skin.
In the short amount of time that we have known one another, a relationship that I have never even believed possible has been developing. In her eyes, I see what I mean to her.
For a moment, I don't know how to behave. I have never been in this situation, and for that moment, I feel like I am betraying something or someone. The next moment, I have arisen, an apology in my eyes as my legs begin to take me away from her.
"Tristan," she whispers, realizing her misstep, as her eyes begin to twinkle with burgeoning tears ready to crest.
"Your jacket!" She finds the words to halt me.
"You'll be cold." I say, at my place near the door.
"There will be questions. They'll ask what we were doing out here."
"Rory, I…" I begin, but she comes up to me and puts the jacket on my shoulders before fisting away the tears that will ruin her meticulously painted face.
"Just take your coat. I'm sorry. I'll wait a few minutes and leave after you."
"It's just, I have to be home on time. I'm grounded." I offer her an untruth to cut the truth just realized.
She nods, moving away from me, back to her place on the ledge.
I feel like a heel, just leaving her there with tears in her eyes, in the cold, as I escape an awkward situation.
"I love my dead gay son." -Heathers
Every minute of my day has been prescribed a duty.
When I wake up in the morning, I am allowed my morning ablutions. But from breakfast, to the end of my day, I have been efficiently scheduled. Frank lets me out of the car within five minutes of the late bell. He had scheduled it to a tee. This way, I can only run to my locker before making it into homeroom. If I am late, a call reaches Him within the hour.
This morning as I make my way to my homeroom seat, I pass Lane and Mary working on origami crafts. Mary doesn't look up when I pass, but Lane smiles and says,
"Morning, Tristan."
"Hi Penny, Mary," I nod in their direction, settling in my seat behind her.
"My name is Rory," she replies automatically, concentrating on the small intricate folds nearly too fine for her fingers.
Our words end at the sound of the bell.
"I've been listening to my gut since I was 14 years old, and frankly speaking, I've come to the conclusion that my guts have shit for brains."- High Fidelity
My place in the library is located deep within the government section, rarely visited during the day. Within the deepest recesses of the library, in the warmest area, dark and windowless, I spend my lunch in solitude.
As I round the corner to my spot, moments after the third lunch bell rings, I find my place occupied.
I don't know when she snuck in, but we both know she's in my space.
"What are you doing here?"
"Reading." She keeps her eyes well-trained on her page.
"I can see that. Can you do it somewhere else?"
She shakes her head.
"I like this place: quiet and secluded."
"I know. It's why I come here. In fact, the reason why it's so quiet and secluded is because people know I've claimed it."
"Self-fulfilling prophesy, huh?"
"I suppose."
From my position above her, I can see she is reading a novel.
"Are you doing work for school?"
"What do you care?"
"I need to know to what greater plan I am contributing when I lend you space on my floor."
"You aren't kicking me out anymore?"
Her eyes leave her page and finally reach mine.
"I suspect your inherent goodness will upgrade me a few rings in hell."
"You're an idiot if you think I can uplift you," she frowns, ignoring my backhanded compliment. "I also expected more of a fight," her eyes return to her book.
"What can I say, the view from here is phenomenal."
She looks up to me, giving me the perfect view down her shirt. In the few moments that we can steal to ourselves in Chilton, we act as perfect adversaries.
"Not as phenomenal as my view every morning," she counters, with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
I kneel down to her level, and push,
"You know, no one is around, you can give me a proper viewing."
And with that, she slams her fist into the toe of my shoe, and suddenly, I am on my back on the library floor, trying not to curse aloud.
In the halls of Chilton, we don't take our roles to heart. Instead, we take them in stride, pushing our relationship as far as we can within the parameters of our prescribed relationship. When the pain abates, I sink into a seat next to her. I am silent for a few minutes as I watch her read, her fingers twisting her hair. Finally, annoyed with my attention, she sighs,
"You don't have anything to do?" She's looking at me again.
"You've interrupted my ability to be productive. What are you doing here anyway?"
"What am I always doing?" she sighs again.
I don't know how to characterize our relationship. I couldn't call what Mary and I do a friendship. We aren't by any means in a relationship. We seem to only find one another when searching for solace.
"Hiding again?"
She nods, bringing her eyes back to the pages.
"From whom?"
"Everyone." She shrugs scooting closer to me so that our bodies touched.
"Why?"
She doesn't look at me when she says,
"It's the only way I could guarantee time with you."
"With me?"
"Look, don't get too excited. It won't happen much. I can't have people finding out. But besides Lane, you're my only ally in this place. And with this never-ending punishment in place, this is the only way I can talk to you for real."
"I'm honored." I smile, knowing she can feel it even if she doesn't look up to see.
"You're ego's honored," I can feel her smile, pushing her hair behind her ear and placing her head on my shoulder.
"I want to put my arms around you and let you lean against me…"
"It's a bad idea." She sits up, "Can you do me a favor and make up with your Dad? I don't like sneaking around."
I nod as she shuts her book and stands up.
"Bye." She leaves me to my space.
I nod and wonder,
What the fuck's an ally, anyway?
"I mean, say what you like about the tenets of National Socialism, Dude, at least it's an ethos."- The Big Lebowski
A scrap of paper makes its way onto my desk.
If it weren't for the stacks of contrasting, pristine printer paper, I would have never noticed the solitary, blue striped crumpled ball. Before my hand moves over the sharp, rounded, spherical plane, I mentally prepare myself for a letdown.
For four weeks, after class I have been escorted from the courtyard five minutes before the dismissal bell excuses my peers. Fred drives me from the meticulously manufactured warmth of Chilton, to the deliberately devised coolness of DuGrey Corporation. Grey steel, white walls and highly reflective black marble tile contrasts the dark wood, egg shell walls and white marble squares. A desk in a small room adjacent to His office has been designated for me (although I can safely assume that His "executive assistant" has been relocated to accommodate me). I spend three hours there every day.
After He determined that my prowess came from His "tutelage," I was forced into this role, forced into the little room where He kept His secrets.
For the three hours a day that I spend in the office, no one is allowed in.
My only interactions are with Him and Mr. Dumel, His business partner.
Which is why the sudden appearance of misplaced stationery attracts my attention.
But I don't have the time to contemplate anomalies; I have a meeting with Mr. Dumel and Him.
"… I was looking over the notes, and maybe the best way to target the young market is not necessarily by adopting the language, but actually adopting the look. We need to place a face to the brand that exemplifies that target audience."
An hour later, they are finally listening to me.
"Do you have suggestions?" Mr. Dumel leans forward, intrigued by a possibility that hasn't yet been suggested.
"If we're looking to target the burgeoning young adults, fresh faced and entering college in the fall, someone like Anne Hathaway, Jenna Malone, or even the lesser known, British born Carrie Mulligan? I have headshots if those names are unfamiliar to you."
He loudly clears his throat,
"And why do you believe that the carefully researched brand wouldn't be successful as marketing has developed?"
"The internet, TV, every movie?" I scoff, "…images are becoming more prevalent and pertinent to brand legitimacy. Things that before were visible because of their ubiquity suddenly need websites, and models posed in mid-use and someone recognizable to make relevant. O.M.G.s and L.M.A.O.s are already passé."
"Interesting," Mr. Dumel smiled, pulling away and penciling more notes in his Moleskin. "The work you've been doing here is really top notch. I'll pass this on to marketing and publicity and see what develops."
"Thanks," I said standing with him. He reluctantly follows our move.
"Good job, young man," he frowns, exiting the small room.
When they leave, I sit back in my chair and look back at the small scrap. I know I shouldn't even be tempted to open it.
This last month and a half have been slightly cathartic. Not being with girls in the halls, inviting them home to my bed, fighting over bullshit in the halls has been nice. Even the secret, futile pursuit of Mary has been refreshing.
But a scrap of notebook paper is on my desk, resembling the pieces I've found in my locker and like the ones at school, I am unable to act on whatever may be written inside.
I finger the small ball in my hands unsure of what to do. I have been a saint for a month and a half now.
I open the scrap of paper and read:
After your meeting, your father is scheduled to have a 45 minute meeting with his executive secretary. I took the initiative to schedule a corresponding meeting with me in the men's lavatory. I'll bring the condom.
-J
I have been a saint for a month and a half, but that letter wakes up the devil in me.
A 'Closed for Service' sign hangs on the men's room door when I enter. Jamie, the nineteen-year-old office intern is already inside.
"Hi," she purrs, standing at the other side of the room, a finger in her mouth as she sucks on it suggestively.
I don't say anything as I crash into her, my tongue diving deep into her mouth, searching for the sweet taste I have abstained from for so long. She reciprocates, her fingers making their way from my stomach, to my chest, over my shoulders to settle in my hair as her tongue strokes mine, and her tongue ring clicks against my soft palete.
In reality, I am not interested in her, but as her hips push aggressively, and suggestively, against mine, my body goes into auto-mode. I turn our bodies and press her against the wall, loving the feel of her warmth against mine. She is wearing a stiff, tight skirt, which will not relent to being pulled up to her hips; so instead, we unzip it together, impatient for our mutual release. With her skirt pulled down and discarded across the room, she does something I did not expect. She kneels to her knees, unzips my pants and pulls my member into her mouth.
Although this wasn't anticipated, it is appreciated as she moves from shaft to tip, with practiced ease, using her lips, her tongue and her tongue piercing as I'm sure she's done a million times before. Her ministrations give me nothing to do but pant. I put my hands in her hair, as she deep throats me and I groan as her fingers stroke my scrotum and squeeze my balls. She's good. Really good. I moan as she moves away, shimmies against me and jumps up, wrapping her legs around my midsection.
In a moment, she is against the wall, my member is at her pulsing entrance and my finger is pulling her soaking panties to the side. I haven't returned the favor, but at this point, I don't know if I can without embarrassing myself. I am about to plunge myself deep within her warmth before she whispers,
"Better safe than sorry, Mr. DuGrey." And she, without looking, rips open the foil package and rolls the condom on me before I plunge into her sex.
If you've never known heaven, you've never been between the legs of a woman. Soft, warm, wet, tight and pulsing, this place, the cradle of life is the gift to men. Women can't plunge themselves in this glorious place where nothing but my instincts can survive and produce the closest thing to heaven on earth. She pants above me, moans when my thumb finds her center and gasps when her orgasm rocks her center and her body begins to milk me. I move within her until I can't take it anymore and cum inside.
I hold onto her, as we both regain our breath. When we finally are breathing normal, I pull myself from her, and place her back on the ground. I enter a stall, to clean and flush the condom as she moves across the bathroom to replace her skirt and press down her hair. From opposite ends of the bathroom, I'm sure, we appear helter skelter, with wrinkled clothes, quick breath and ruffled hair. But inside, I have reached an inner peace.
"Oops, I almost forgot!" she grins, after smoothing her hair. She puts her fingers in her mouth and unscrews her tongue ring. "This was great. Thanks."
And she exits the lavatory.
It may not have been like the notes in my locker, but boy, I am happy I opened it!
"Bullets, my only weakness. How did you know?" -Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle
She leaves me funny quotes from movies in my locker. She writes them on little scraps of paper, folded into tiny paper cranes and sneaks them into my locker when she can.
The first time I received the note, it had been written on a diminutive electric pink post it. It was a quote from Anchorman, one of my favorites, in fact. After reading the quote, I burst into a guffaw in the hall. For the rest of the day,
"I'm gonna punch you in the ovary, that's what I'm gonna do. A straight shot, right to the babymaker."
followed me around campus. She actually had succeeded in making my day better.
Like the visit to my corner in the library, the quotes are delivered infrequently, but the infrequency makes up for the lost novelty and allows me some semblance of companionship in this time of solitude.
TBC…
A/N: I hope you liked it. Lots of sexy action going on this chapter. Maybe too much? Wink* Don't forget to read and review, please!