Boo!!!
Ha! Betcha's weren't expecting me! I know, I know, I've been silent for ages . . . in my defence; I've been sick and busy.
But I'm back now, and as usual, I've got STUFF TO SAY!!!!! Lol.
FIRST go and read my new fanfic: "Aftermath"
You'll love it as much as I love your mum. lol. Just kidding about the loving your mum part. NOT kidding, however, about the go-read-Aftermath-because-you'll-love-it part. So yea. Do that.
SECONDChenaol, in case you were wondering, is pronounced: "She-no-welle"
THIRD Apologies to my darling beta xtotalyatpeacex —I have not been able to make use of her services even ONCE due to my computer conspiring against me, alongside fanfiction-dot-net. I haven't got any alerts or P.Ms or anything for OVER A MONTH.
Technology hates me.
FOURTH: WARNING: STRONG LANGUAGE AHEAD.
Fifth yea, this here chapter? . . . You should know. I have a plastic rubbish bin lid ready and waiting to protect me from the water bombs some of you will no doubt decide to assault me with after you finish reading this.
So, it's cool. I'm ready for ya'll and your water balloons of death. Bring it on.
Stage direction: . . . Mariah runs away))
X-X-X
The Daughter Of: Chapter 16
"Dispelling Illusions"
X-X-X
I love the beach.
Did you know that?
Well, I do.
The beach and me are like Kirstie Alley and a deep fryer. Only unlike dear Kirstie and her deep fryer, you don't see me trying to pretend that I'm not totally dependant on the beach.
Sorry Kirstie. I used to like you, truly I did. But then you did that horrible Christmas movie with Tim Allen. ANY movie with both Christmas and Tim Allen is going to suck, that's just the way it is.
EXAMPLE: Santa Clauses' one through three.
Tim, mate, you should have stuck with tool time.
Anyway. The beach. When Nick came up with the bright idea that he and I should spend the day at the beach, I didn't take much persuading. At all. Because as I think I've mentioned, me and the beach . . .
Well. I'm not going to get into that again.
Although, Dontella Versace and plastic surgery would have been another apt comparison.
ANY-FUCKING-WAY.
We found ourselves a good spot on the sand, (no mean feat in Carmel-by-the-Sea: tourist land,) and without unnecessary preamble, I stripped off my dress, a thin light pink coloured baby doll, and was standing there in my latest wardrobe addition—are you wondering how I find time to shop with all the nutters set on killing me? ONLINE BOUTIQUES. The love of my life. Anyway. I was wearing my new black and white horizontal striped bikini.
Now I know what you're thinking!
Horizontal stripes—Wardrobe DON'T, if there ever was one. But think about it. It's a BIKINI. Who DOESN'T want their boobs and ass enhanced?
Other than Queen Latifah and HER boobs. Because in that instance, I can fully see where she was coming from. Those things were a SAFETY HAZARD.
Anyway. Bootilicious with horizontal stripes was me.
Then I noticed Nick staring at me with his eyebrows raised.
And somehow I don't think he was pondering the do's and don'ts of horizontal stripes.
"What?" I said, defensive, as his eyes raked me over from head to toe, and then back again.
"What happened," he said with a mocking lilt in his voice, not bothering to discontinue his visual assessment of me, "to shy miss goodie two feet?"
"Shoes," I corrected, sitting down in the sand next to him.
He dismissed this with a wave of his hand and started to say something else but I cut him off. "Whatever," I said as I lay back and stretched happily in the sun, "just coz there's more chicks checking me out than you," I joked, "Don't be a sore loser."
Yea . . . you there, lifeguard in her red swimmers . . . stop looking at me. I will NOT be floating your boat today.
Nick snorted. "Well. Don't worry kitten, if you decide to leave me for that fat tub of shit over there—" he indicated at a fellow bather further along the beach, "—I swear I won't make things difficult for the two of you." He moulded his voice into an imitation of sincerity, "I'll bow out gracefully, you know?"
I looked over at the—obese—gentleman in question and silently screamed.
EW EW EW!!!!! OBESE PEOPLE BACK ROLLS! GET ME AWAY FROM THE OBESE PEOPLE BACK ROLLS!
Or please, someone, get that poor guy a shirt.
I winced faintly, trying not to let Nick see, and attempted to maintain my lofty moral stance. "Looks aren't important," I tried, "It doesn't matter—"
"Sure looks aren't important, kitten. Why don't you go and offer to rub sunscreen on his back for him, then? Make his day."
I think I'm going to hurl.
"I—um, think he'll be OK," I stuttered. "Besides, you know. Stranger danger. He might be a—a—"
"He's in danger of skin cancer Melinda," Nick teased, "Melanoma. Is that what you want? You want him to die a tragic, painful death?"
I chewed on my bottom lip.
Nick, sitting there on the sand absolutely pissing himself with laughter, then made my decision for me. "Go on Melinda," He said between fits. "I dare you."
He didn't think I would!
WELL THEN.
"Fine!" I said loudly, grabbing my bottle of SPF15 from my bag. "FINE. I WILL."
So I marched off down the beach, bottle in hand, and reaching the man, I squatted down next to him. "Hi there," I said pleasantly.
"Hi." He said, frowning a little at me, the random girl sitting here holding her bottle of sunscreen out to him.
"What's your name?"
"Arthur . . ."
"Well, Arthur, I just thought I'd give you this. Skin cancer is a danger to us all, you know." I smiled cheerfully and offered him the bottle.
"Uh . . . thanks." He said, taking the bottle.
"Not a problem!" I trilled. "Use it generously, and have a nice day!"
"Sure . . ."
I skipped away, dropping the perky Good Samaritan thing the instant I got back to Nick, who looked like he was going to have a heart attack from laughing so hard. "There," I said shortly. "I did it."
I plonked back down in the sand, waiting for him to be able to control himself long enough to force out a sentence.
"That was—"
No. He broke off into loud snorts of laughter again.
He tried again, "That was really—"
Nope.
"Um, it—"
I heaved a sigh and looked purposely off in the other direction.
"He probably thought," Nick just managed, "It was his lucky day!"
I elected to ignore this.
"You know," he added—finally able to construct full sentences again—wrapping his warm arm around my waist and dragging my body up against his. "I should disqualify you for not actually rubbing it on him."
"You care about him so much," I snapped, "You go and do it."
But I wasn't sure how much longer I could pretend to be mad at him.
"Well," he murmured into my ear, "I am very concerned about Skin Cancer."
I couldn't stop myself from giggling. "Yes you certainly are."
"And therefore, I think, it is my duty to, ah, protect you from such tragedy . . . "
I squealed as I felt the cold, thick liquid hit my bare back. "Ah! Nick, can you—"
"What?" he said innocently, massaging the sunscreen into my back, his heated hands slowly and carefully caressing my bared skin.
Forgetting what it was that I was so indignant about, I leant my weight back into him without further protest.
"What is it that you would like me to do, Melinda?"
For once, I recognised now as a time to keep my mouth shut. No need to inflate his ego even more.
He bent his head down to slowly kiss my neck and I suddenly knew that I had never been happier.
Not JUST because I had this hot guy all over me—although I have to admit that was a part of it, otherwise that would make me a liar—but just being with him. I loved just BEING with him.
"Oh look," He said, his voice mild. I reluctantly opened my eyes, "Your boyfriend over there seems to be watching us."
I knew he was talking about the weight watchers candidate. "Fuck you," I said, laughing.
"Maybe, right now, he's undressing you with his eyes . . . not that that would take much imagination . . ."
He pulled at the bikini string at my neck, undoing it, and I scrambled to hold it in place.
"Nick!" I scolded, hurriedly trying to retie my top. A DOUBLE knot this time, "Public-fucking-place, you idiot."
"I know," He smirked. "I was just trying to provide the good people of Carmel with a little morning entertainment." He waved enthusiastically to my tubby friend whom I'd forced my sun block upon earlier.
"Nick!" I grabbed his hand and puled it down, not protesting when he rested it on the top of my thigh instead. "Honestly. Stop trying to hire me out, you fucking pimp. BESIDES." I added with a malicious smirk. "Maybe it was YOU who he was mentally undressing."
His grin abruptly died off his face to be replaced with a look of horror and suddenly it was my turn to be cracking up.
"You're bloody hilarious," He grumbled.
"Aw, now, baby," I crooned, pushing him back on the sand and crawling on top of him so I could pinch his cheek, "It's not your fault your just too irresistible!"
He glared at me.
"Seriously though," I continued mercilessly. "It's because you're such a CATCH! I mean, first Mrs Grey—" he flinched horribly and my grin widened, "—and now that prime example of masculinity over there," I nodded in ARTHUR'S general direction without taking my eyes off Nick's face.
"Well," I faked a look of sorrow as I prepared to throw his earlier words to me back in his face, " I understand if you feel that I just can't measure up. I mean, I'd understand if you wanted to leave me for any of these other far superior offers. I promise I won't make things difficult for you. I'll bow out gracefully, you know?"
"Bitch," He replied, acknowledging himself to be beaten.
I smiled happily and leant down to kiss him on the lips. "Ah!—now," I warned, as his hands came around to rest on my butt. "What did I say about public places and trying to pimp me out?"
He frowned in concentration. "It was . . . a no? Hmm. Now are you absolutely CERTAIN about that?"
The tips of his fingers found their way under my bikini bottoms and I pulled away resolutely, smacking him on the shoulder as I lifted my weight off him and sat up. Then I realised this wasn't really much better, as I was actually straddling him now.
"Bloody teenagers," someone to the right of us muttered. I looked up and saw a father glaring at us while three kids sat at his feet building sandcastles.
"Sorry," I mumbled, flushing slightly and getting off Nick completely, deliberately moving back around to sit down beside him, putting a little more distance between us.
"What the hell?" Nick said, sitting up and glaring at the—perfectly normal weight, I am happy to report—man.
"No, shutup." I said. "He's right."
Nick stoped glaring and shrugged, knowing that I spoke the truth.
I know that personally I would have shot any couple being as grossly affectionate-slash-sexual in front of me.
. . . probably still would.
"Anyway," I said happily to Nick, piling up sand and beginning to sculpt it into what I knew would be the best damn sandcastle Carmel had ever seen. "I bet my sandcastle is going to kick YOUR sandcastle's ass."
"You're insane."
"Scared?" I threw back.
"You're on," He said. "But Melinda?"
"Yeah?"
He reached out a tanned arm and with one quick swipe completely killed my sandcastle—ok, pile of sand at the point, but shutup.
My jaw dropped open in mock affront.
OK. The Venus de Milo it was not, but THAT'S NOT VERY NICE!!!
"Oh!" I huffed, "Oh, its on now. It is ON!"
And on it certainly was.
Did I say how much I love the beach?
X-X-X
"Oh, God Nick," I moaned. "Did you have to?"
"What's wrong with it?" he asked, defensively.
"WHERE TO START!"
With the Seagulls?
The concept of a 'Picnic'?
No. No, I got it. The Bucket of Family Feast KFC.
Oh, you think I'm being funny? NO!! I would not joke about such things!!
Shit. I really didn't expect him to want to make such a day of a simple trip to the beach. True I understood how little time we have together when one of us—usually me—isn't a murder target, but THIS IS UNREASONABLE.
A picnic.
A PICNIC!
He's out of his mind.
What, may I ask, is WRONG with a good old Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwich up in the old tree hut I randomly discovered at the back of the Slater property?
. . . Honest to god, I actually found a tree house. Can you IMAGINE my glee?
Except Nick, the bugger, wouldn't let me in it.
Nick: "It's an all BOYS tree hut Melinda. You might infect it with girl cooties."
Me: "You're such a dork."
Nick: (Smugly) "Maybe. But I'm a dork who knows the secret password."
Me: "You are. You're a Yugi-Oh loving dork."
Nick: "I know you are, but what am I?"
I met Nick's eyes, staring at me across the picnic table I was forced to retire to and sighed. "KFC, Nick? KFC? What is WRONG with you?"
"Many, many things," He answered cheerily. "Eat up now kitten."
I thought that I'd rather be shat on by a rhino, to be honest.
Not that I didn't know why he was so keen to avoid going back to his place. Something to do with Miss-I'm-so-gorgeous-that-even-though-I-have-a-totally-unpronouncable-name-I-can-still-do-whatever-I-want-because-I-am-the-lapdog-of-a-powerful-big-bad-lawyer-CHENAOL.
She literally has not stopped giving him shit since she walked in on us THAT morning. Sure she kept her word about not telling anyone—OTHER than Slater.
But I have long ago resigned myself to the fact that if you tell a taken girl/woman something she WILL tell her partner. And that really YANKS MY BRAIDS, because I DID NOT sign on for a tell-all friendship with your current bed buddy.
ANYWAY.
Chenaol didn't spread it. But she DEFINITELY hadn't forgotten about it, as I had so dearly hoped.
Personally, I was able to put aside my own mortification and find her tormenting just that little bit humorous. NICK, on the other hand, was having just a few problems MOVING ON, and was not at all inclined to see the humour.
This I had found a little difficult to understand, I mean, if I could walk my way through it, what on earth could have been his hold up? All too soon I found out at dinner last night.
Or, "Dinner with the Adams Family" as I privately refer to it as.
I remember being SO desperate to get out of having a full-blown family meal with all of them.
Unfortunately, as I have been saying ALL ALONG, fate is a bitch and wants me DEAD.
Or at least humiliated.
Which, in some instances, is the same thing, eh Britney?
So. Fate chose to put SLATER in my path, who absolutely INSISTED that I join them, and THEN, (like he alone wasn't enough of a KILLJOY,) somehow Nick's suddenly in on my little plan to do a runner—to The Tree Hut. Where else? And HE was all "Why wouldn't you eat with us?"
I met his unfathomable expression with pleading eyes and said, somewhat pathetically, "Because . . . uh, I don't eat. Food. I don't eat food. Because . . . I'll die. Painfully. I'll die painfully."
Not surprisingly, he didn't buy it, and so I had ended up meekly following him into the family dining room with my—figurative, obviously—tail well and truly between my legs.
Because, I mean, seriously? Dinner with the Slaters? CAN I TAKE THE FIFTH?????
Predictably, the MOMENT we got into sight—we were late, thanks to my many devious plots—Chenaol started with the shit heaping, greeting her stepson with an enthusiastic: "Ah! Now HERE'S my little man-slut!"
I could have made any number of uncouth comments about her own regular bed buddy—I mean, whose she calling a man-slut? She's MARRIED to one! But I managed to restrain myself, instead feeling my cheeks faintly begin to burn as I stood there, staring resolutely at one of the paintings on the wall.
Oh, SNAP. Slater just indicated at the seat on his right, and looked at me very pointedly. Oh . . . and he just gestured to the seat again . . . No, no no no no no! Please don't ask me to sit by you, please don't ask me to sit by you, please no, please—
"Melinda?" His lilting voice carried easily across the room to me, and there was no way I could pretend not to have heard it. "Come, take a seat." Again, he motioned to the seat beside him and I knew that there was no way I could have pretended not to have understood him either.
Well.
I could have.
But it might have involved some pretty serious sign language.
Not something in which I had much confidence in my abilities.
I took a deep breath and went and sat next to him.
WHAT A DICK. Slater. I bet he knows, the barstardo, he KNOWS how fucking sci-fi I'm finding this and he's bloody loving it.
"Water, Melinda?" Slater collected me a glass and started pouring water into it for me without waiting for a reply. Not that I would have been able to come up with one anyway. YES and NO had abruptly moved beyond my mental capacity. Then Slater procured a round coaster and arranged the water neatly on it for me.
"Thanks, uh—"
"Paul," he supplied, smiling. The expression forced me to re-evaluate my assessment of him. He really didn't look so satanic when he smiled like that. "My name is Paul. I think we've surely moved past all this 'Slater' business, don't you?"
"Um," I hesitated, "Sure . . ."
To be perfectly honest, I was actually finding myself beginning to like him. Slater. Paul. Whoever. He might be a bit of a fruit loop, certainly—but aren't all mediators? And I'm beginning to realise that most of it is only surface deep.
WELL! HOW 'BOUT THAT!! EMOTIONAL GROWTH FOR MELINDA TONIGHT!!!
Check and mate.
Nick then took the seat beside me—patting my knee as he slid into his seat—and I looked at him and his dad, noticing for the first time, the similarities between them. I mean, besides the obvious, that they were both charming, funny and HOT—YES, Slater, (DAMNIT, Paul,) is hot. Not as hot as Nick though, of course. Because, I mean, not only is PAUL old– like, around forty! – But you know what?
I fully think he did my mum.
And that's just not hot.
But they both have . . . that unidentifiable something that makes them who they are, that irresistible quality that makes you want to hold onto them and never let them go, but yearn to slap them at the same time.
"Dancing With the Stars" would call it X factor, that's all I'm saying.
I'm still not taking back my previous evaluation of this situation as weird though. Coz it still definitely is.
Thankfully, someone then brought out some food. I don't really know what it WAS exactly, but I do know that there was fish, lettuce and avocado thrown in their somewhere. I HATE avocado.
I hate avocado like I hate . . .
No, I got nothing.
Its just: I hate avocado like I hate avocado.
This was about when Chenaol decided to strike up a conversation.
Lucky us.
"So Nick," she said, leaning forward and putting an elegant elbow on the table, cupping her neck with her hand. "Do you think we ought to buy you a big kid door lock?"
Fuck me with a stick; she's not going to let it go.
Beside me, I felt Nick's body tense as he ground his teeth together and glared at her.
And I?
I began to wish for death.
"Don't you agree sweetheart?" she asked to Slater—PAUL, HIS NAME IS PAUL—who just smiled indulgently at her, so she carried on. "Well. Anyhow . . ."
I exhaled with relief. Finally, she was going to LET it GO.
" . . I just don't understand how you can call ME a slut, Nicholas."
Or not.
"He what?" Slater frowned at his son.
Okay . . . I would quite like to run away from this table screaming now.
"Um, may I be excused?" I whispered to no one in particular.
I got ignored for my troubles.
"Ok . . ." I said slowly, sliding my chair back. "I'm just going to—"
"Stay," instructed Slater, as Nick's hand shot out and grabbed my wrist with his vice-like grip.
"Sure . . ." I mumbled, sliding my chair back in. "Because that's cool too . . ."
Nick still didn't release my wrist. Guess he thought I would have made a dash for it.
Which actually was my plan.
Instead—and I suppose he viewed this as compensation, I did not—he loosened his grip and began to use his thumb to stroke the back of my hand. Then, understanding that he wanted me to stay for his sake, I twisted my wrist so I held his hand in my own, and squeezed gently.
You see, now, if I had COOL abnormal powers like being able to FLY, or INVISIBILITY I could get the hell out of here.
BUT NO! Seeing as, instead, I am stuck with this MEDIATOR shit, I had to go back to staring without purpose around the room like any other NORMAL person in an uncomfortable situation.
See? Check that out! All the con's of being abnormal with none of the pro's!
DAMN THIS!
Deciding that safety lay in familiarity, I went back to staring at the painting on which I'd lavished such attention on when I entered the room. It was a painting of the Notre Dame, I think. Pretty.
Then a mention of my own name, by Chenaol, drew my attention away from the painting. "I don't see why Melinda's even so embarrassed . . ."
Don't you? She does.
" . . . Didn't Nick tell you," Chenaol spoke directly to a mortified me now as she continued airily on with her little speech, "how I came home early that night and found him with that pretty red haired girl? That was a hundred times worse—"
"CHENAOL!!!!" Nick bellowed, loosing his temper completely. "ENOUGH."
Pretty? Did she HAVE to mention that she was pretty?
Chenaol, unperturbed, continued, "Oh, come on Nick. I'm just wondering why she—" again, she pointed, (intentionally, I was sure,) drawing everyone's attention back to me, and I was left with no option other than to redouble my concentrations on the painting.
Hey look!
That person taking photos of the Notre Dame has sticky out ears . . .
Cool.
Paul began to quietly chuckle.
"—should be so uncomfortable! You should have reassured her that we're used to your little ANTICS."
My eyes flew to Nick's face, and what I saw worried me.
Oh dear . . .
I averted my gaze uncomfortably, and found Slater looking intently at me instead. I felt the colour flood my cheeks and he winked.
"Chenaol," Nick hissed through gritted teeth. "SHUT THE FUCK UP."
Okay now, easy tiger . . . I tightened my grip on his hand, which I still held.
"Now, now," Paul chided Nick. "I think you need to calm down son."
"Dad, put your bitch back on her leash and stay the fuck out of it," he practically snarled, not taking his eyes of Chenaol.
Oh, this is getting nasty . . .
"Melinda," Nick said, turning to me, "I'm so sorry—"
I started to giggle. Really, I couldn't hold it in. And besides . . . what else could I do? Really, what else could I do?
Nick stared at me, his face betraying his uncertainty.
"I'm sorry Nick," I managed, "I just . . ." I trailed off. I just WHAT? Have mental issues?
Uh, YES.
"Don't worry about it," he said, getting up and coming over to me. "I'm just going out for a bit," he ducked and quickly pressed his lips to mine—I blushed again, feeling his father and stepmother's watching eyes most keenly, "I'll see you later."
He strode out of the room, being careful to shut the huge oak doors carefully behind him. I don't think he wanted me to understand how much this had upset him.
Recognising that he wanted to be alone and sympathising entirely, I didn't follow him.
This must have been something Chenaol found utterly incomprehensible. "Aren't you going after him?"
I stared her. "No, of course not," I replied, confused at her attitude. At her entire behaviour tonight, really. It was so out of character for her to be such a BITCH, because she's usually such a nice, SUNNY person. "He wants to be alone, I get that."
"But . . . oh God, I'm sorry Melinda! I just . . .Augh!" and she slumped over the table, hiding her face in her hands.
I looked, bewildered, at Slater/Paul, who exhaled gustily and relaxed his own posture a little too. I was starting to panic when he said slowly, "Well . . . That was certainly. . . illuminating."
I tightened my jaw and said, sounding even to my own ears more than a little strained: "Could you possibly trouble yourself to use smaller words so that I can understand what the hell you are talking about. I am NOT in the mood for a game of mental scrabble."
"No, of course you're not, my apologies."
WEIRDO.
"I believe," he continued, contriving to sound smooth and rehearsed even when he looked as if he has aged a couple years since entering into this conversation. "Chenaol was simply . . . testing him. At your – and HIS, if I'm right, which is just as worthy of note, bearing in mind that he—" Paul stopped himself, and after a slight pause, continued smooth as ever. "But perhaps this is not the time for tedious explanations of my son's psyche."
"Smaller words," I hissed.
"I'm sorry Melinda." Chenaol said, looking at me with huge, perfectly made up eyes, "I just . . . needed to know."
. . . Huh?
My expression must have betrayed my thoughts, as Paul, again, stepped in. "Chenaol is just trying to protect you."
WHY MUST EVERYONE BE TRYING TO PROTECT ME???? IT IS DRIVING ME UP THE FUCKING WALL!!!
"See," Paul was still talking, "She knows Nick. She needed to know that . . . well, forgive me my lack of tact, that you weren't just another."
Sheepishly, Chenaol nodded.
"Good of you," I mumbled sarcastically to her.
"Well I think," Paul said perceptively, "That this little . . . experience has even demonstrated to you how different he feels about you compared to—"
"That's none of your business!" I interrupted furiously, unnerved by how close he had come to the truth.
Nick had told me, and I believed him. That was all I needed, and frankly, all I could handle.
Sheepish expression lingering, Chenaol asked, "You're not mad at me?"
I smiled at the pretty blonde. "No . . ." then my forehead furrowed, "But I think he might be mad enough for two."
"Yes . . ." she said, broodingly. "I don't think—" and I was astonished to see her break off as beads of moisture began to slowly weave their way down her cheeks.
Of course, it would be too much to ask that the model's mascara ran. NOPE, she looked beautiful, even when crying.
When I cry, my eyes get all red and puffy and whatever makeup I'm wearing immediately begins to look as though it were applied with a water blaster.
Some people have all the damn luck.
"—I don't think he's ever going to forgive me . . ." Her voice wavered slightly on the last word.
I didn't know what to say.
"Hmm," was Paul's—unhelpful, in my opinion—comment. "What I want to know, was if he really called you a—"
"A slut?" she asked, "No. I made it up."
But the speed with which she looked down at her plate after answering convinced me that she wasn't telling the truth.
We sat in silence for a few minutes, each of us lost in our respective thoughts.
"Melinda?" Chenaol whispered getting up from her place at the table and coming over to stand behind me. Warily I got up and faced her, thinking; what NOW?
She put her arms around me and held me tightly to her, "I really am sorry."
Ah!!!!!! Model on me!!!! Get it off!!
"Umm . . ." I did that awkward, ginger pat on the back thing. "Its . . . cool . . . I think . . . "
But, that wasn't the weirdest thing of the night. No. The weirdest thing would be that I chose, actually chose, of my own free will, to spend the rest of the evening with Paul and Chenaol.
One Chenaol let go of me, that is.
And boy did that take a while.
"You see?" Nick said to me presently, distracting me from dwelling upon the events of last night at la casa de Slater. "THIS—" he indicated to the red bucket bearing the image of the colonel, "—is way better than that green shit that you wanted to get."
"That was SUSHI, country boy."
He made eye contact with me and defiantly stuffed another fry in his mouth.
I rolled my eyes.
"Hey, I know!" He grinned at me, a childish glint in his eyes, "See that?" he pointed at a couple down the road from us sitting at another conveniently situated table, reclaiming food from one another's mouths.
I couldn't help but wince.
"Maybe you would enjoy the colonel's labours a little more if—" Nick paused to shove yet another fry in his mouth and lean over the table toward me, "—you got it out of my mouth. Go on." His eyes were positively gleaming as he imitated the guy's idiotic facial expression. "Kiss me. You know you can't resist."
"Yeah . . . No," I said, giggling at the idiot sitting across from me. "Sorry baby. Mashed potato just doesn't flick my switch."
He gasped and faked a look of rejection as he clutched the carton of chips to his chest and sat back down. "Ok then! But one day you'll see. I'll prove you wrong, just wait."
I cracked up.
My boyfriend was such a dork. A lovable dork.
Then I caught sight something weird out of the corner of my eyes. A man stood on the footpath on the other side of the road, with his back to us, taking pictures of his wife as she laughingly posed in front of the sand.
Im sure . . . I'm sure I just saw that woman with the pram stroll right through them.
I lifted my sunglasses and with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, was able to ascertain that these two beachcombers were, upon closer inspection, clearly in possession of full season membership passes to that exclusive club known as the un-dead.
Dracula is president, didn't you know?
Marilyn Monroe (A/N: Wasn't she the most gorgeous thing?) sings him happy birthday every year, without fail.
Anna Nicole (A/N: I love you, Rest In Peace) is his second in command, or so I'm told.
Elvis threw a bit of a tanty and quit. There's just no pleasing the king.
I'm joking.
Well, joking about the hierarchy, at any rate.
Maybe they were looking for either me or Nick, because the second the female saw me watching them—obviously my miserable expression was not as much of a deterrent as I had hoped—she alerted her partner and they began to head towards us.
DAMN UN-DEAD CLUB.
If it were possible—and in anyway helpful—I'd hold a round up and SHOOT YOU ALL!
. . . Anger issues? Me? Naw . . .
I looked over at Nick with an expression that I could only imagine conveyed my unadulterated dread.
Instantly he tensed. "What? What is it?"
I heaved a sigh and gestured at the couple now patiently waiting for traffic to abate before crossing the road.
"Aw . . ."
The male quickly tired of waiting—I could have told him that waiting for an opening in Carmel-by-the-Sea traffic was like waiting for Prince Charles to clue in to the fact that Camilla Parker-Bowles is a TRAMP: Probable, but difficult to determine when. So, taking his wife by the arm, he and she both shimmered into non-existence.
And shimmered right back into existence a few feet from our table.
Again: DAMN UN-DEAD CLUB.
"Don't you REALISE," I said snottily, not bothering with any such trivial things as introductions or salutations. "That materialization is probably REALLY bad for the environment?"
No, really.
Why can't ghosts just ride a bike like EVERYBODY ELSE??????
The female blinked, confused. "I'm sorry." I muttered. "I'm just . . . not in the zone today. Can I help you?" I finished, more politely.
"How are you's today?" The male asked us.
Only it sounded more like, 'ouh arh youse tewday?'
I frowned slightly. His accent was . . . Finnish? What on earth is one—two, I'm going to assume—ghosts from Finland doing in little old Carmel?
What, GHOSTS WANT TO SEE THE WORLD??
You've got to be kidding me.
I couldn't stop myself from asking, "what, are you Finnish?"
"Yes . . . we are," the woman confirmed, her accent less heavy than his.
I was astounded. "Huh! Well fuck my mum!"
"Pardon?"
"Oh, no—" I hastened, "Don't, I was just expressing my surprise—"
Nick cut me off smoothly, "Can we help you?"
Good thing he did, too. I don't think, somehow, that Finland is quite ready for Melinda.
It was about then I noticed, that although he was speaking to them, Nick was still looked fixedly at me.
. . . huh?
Wait.
LIGHTBULB!!!!!!!!
Ok—PUBLIC PLACE AND TALKING TO GHOSTS: bit of a predicament. Thank God Nick's so much SMARTER than me.
God . . . how embarrassing. I'm so DUMB sometimes.
Belatedly, I looked around; hoping no one was eavesdropping on my conversation with thin air.
If only I really were insane, and in the habit of conversing with thin air.
That—psychosis—would be by far preferable to THIS, this knowledge that they were never going to leave me alone.
I was cursed . . . a marked man.
And I was just dragging everyone else down with me.
Stacy.
Brian.
Daniel.
Alanna.
There wouldn't be anyone else. I resolved. No other name to add to that morbid list.
No one could be allowed to stand in front of me anymore.
I had to, irretrievably dispel this illusion. They WEREN'T safe just because I wanted them to be. Because at the end of the day . . . there's a damn good chance that Keith was going to get me.
And I knew first hand that he wasn't too picky about picking off those who stood in front of me. Or even those who stood anywhere remotely close to me.
I couldn't—WOULDN'T—let that happen.
This resolution caused me no end of mental unrest, and I looked up at Nick with shocking clarity.
I was barely able to hear the rest of Nick's and them—those ghosts, those stupid ghosts who are part of something that's cost me everything—their conversation, I was lost inside my own head, endlessly going over what I knew I had to do.
I barely retained sufficient awareness to notice when our foreign—in more ways than one—visitors left us, dematerialising without re-appearing, this time.
"What—" I stoped to try and clear the huskiness from my voice, "What did they need?"
Nick smile was wry. "Nothing, can you believe it? Their deaths were abrupt—"
I had ascertained that already. Two of them, clearly man and wife? Had to have been an accident. Car crash . . . fire . . . meteor . . . take your pick.
Its not like it mattered why.
"—And they're waiting for their daughter to be OK, apparently. You know, I have to hand it to you. Wouldn't cha know? Sometimes it is better to hear them out. "
I couldn't even work up a smile.
"Melinda? Melinda, are you alright?"
"I'm fine."
"Are you sure—?"
I cut him off, "Yes. Um, so, do you want to . . . come for a walk?"
I couldn't keep delaying.
That only made it worse.
I looked up at the sun beginning to set beyond the ocean and made my final decision then and there.
"Sure," Nick answered me, smiling again. "But can I take the KFC?"
My chest suddenly felt hollow and my throat dry.
"Of course," I replied, faking a sunny smile.
While its true that Carmel beaches are insanely crowded, its possible to get a stretch of sand to yourself if you wait until the temperature settles to below freezing, the lifeguards pack up, and even the most stubborn of bathers finally admit defeat.
This is what we did.
"Thanks," I said, as Nick stoped me for a second, drawing my indigo woollen wrap tighter around me, and pulling my body against his own in, I assume, an attempt to warm my freezing skin.
Not that it made much difference.
The chill was a result of the mindset, not the elements.
My dress whipped around my legs as I gently pulled away from him and resumed walking along, my sandals leaving imprints in the dry sand that were quickly blown away by the icy wind.
Nick effortlessly caught back up with me, deliberately weaving his hand back through my own.
I looked up at him, strolling along, unburdened, beside me; and took in with painstaking detail, every inch of his humbling appearance. His sharp facial features; the square jaw with only the barest trace of stubble, the dark hair set in his trademark style of controlled disarray, his flawless physique and then his eyes . . .
Nick glanced down at me then and smiled, an expression formed more with his eyes than his mouth and I felt my heart contract.
His eyes . . . they were such a startling shade of blue that made me think—and never would I have dared voice this thought aloud, romantically inclined as it was—of a frozen over lake.
But right now, when he smiled at me like that . . . the ice melted away and I was able to catch a glimpse of the warm pools beneath.
The pain in my chest intensified, but this time, I knew, it had little to do with my pleasure at his smiles and everything to do with pain.
It was more than I could take.
I couldn't do this.
I couldn't.
But for his sake . . . I would.
"Nick," I said in a small voice, "I—"
He cut me off with a groan. "Hey, if this is more about that sushi shit, I told you. No fucking way."
"It's not," my voice sounded pathetic even to my own ears and I cleared my throat. "Nick, I—um, we—er . . ."
If only I could've willed the stabbing pain in my chest to subside.
"Aw, it's ok kitten!" he jumped in, "You're not the first to feel the awesome power of my . . ." He flexed a bicep, "God like physique."
I thought ruefully that he wasn't in anyway guilty of over-exaggeration. God like physique really was a very good description.
But that still wasn't why I felt so strongly about him. It was just SOMETHING—
God help me, I'm back to "X Factor" again.
I saw his concerned frown over my lack of mirth, but still I didn't crack a smile. I really couldn't.
"Melinda?" his frown deepened as he guided me over, and then down onto, one of the many benches that lined this stretch of beach.
The temperature was cooling rapidly now, and as a result, were really were two of the only people still stubbornly braving the freezing temperature and vicious winds in order to spend just a little more time by the forever picturesque ocean.
"Kitten?" Nick probed again, using his preferred nickname for me which, in the past, had almost never failed to goad me into response, but right now I thought I'd shatter if I had to hear him voice his condescending endearment ever again.
"I think," I started nervously, "That I'll, uh, be going home tonight." I didn't let myself look up from my bare knees as I felt his weight join mine on the bench.
His answering silence to my statement stretched on, surrounding me, cocooning me, compelling me to dispel it. And stupidly, I did.
I began to make inconsequent little explanations of no real importance to anyone, "Nick, you've been the best, uh, host . . ."
I got some rather badly time flashbacks of Nick's late night visits that went far beyond the responsibilities of your average host.
" . . . But," I ploughed on, stupidly not looking up to gauge his reaction. Perhaps if I had, I like to think that I would have shut the fuck up. But realistically, I won't kid myself. "I think its time for me to go . . . I have to . . . really go. I've monopolised you for long enough, and I think it's time for me to leave. You. Leave you."
This was wrong. This was all wrong. My words were coming out disjointed and meaningless in my stupid attempt at detachment. I knew even before I'd finished speaking how WRONG I sounded.
"So," Nick said carefully, "What are you saying Melinda?"
I forced myself to look up and meet his eyes, and caught my breath at the disbelief I saw there.
"You're not . . .?" He sounded uncertain, and it was unbearable to hear such a confidant, self-assured guy sounding so unsure. " . . . Are you?"
I dropped my eyes back to my knees, and noted that I had goose bumps. I was so SURE that I was doing the right thing . . . but looking at him . . . maybe I've confused, like so many others before me, right with wrong . .
He put a gentle hand on my cheek—I flinched—and lifted my face up to his. I shut my eyes tightly rather than confront the expression I feared to see in his eyes.
Pathetic, I know.
Cowardly, well, I knew that too.
I jumped slightly as I felt his lips on mine, and my eyes flew open—then settled back closed as I shut my mind off and willingly gave myself over to the familiar sensation of having Nick Slater's lips move against my own.
My feelings for him were stronger that I would have ever dreamed possible.
That's the only defence I have, that's my only excuse.
And I'm just beginning to realise that it's not enough.
So I pulled away from him.
It was usually me who pulled away.
And now, it always would be.
We sat there in silence for a minute, and I turned my head into the wind, letting the salty wind sting my eyes, so I could convince myself that it was the sole reason for the tears I could feel gathering.
"Yes," I answered him, feeling the tears spill over. "I am."
Then I finally looked up into his eyes and couldn't repress a shiver, which I blamed on the cold.
"So," he said tightly. "That's it, is it? You've had your fun, that's it, you're gone?"
"I didn't—" I paused. "Nick . . . I'm so sorry—"
He laughed bitterly, cutting me off. "Oh please. Don't even bother apologising. It's my own damn fault."
I frowned slightly, confused. He saw this and hastened to explain.
I really wish he hadn't.
"Melinda, you made me work my fucking ass of to prove to you that this time was different. Prove that you weren't just my latest piece of ass, that I wasn't USING you, or, or, PLAYING with your head—" he broke off and shook his head, smiling in an expression of merciless self-mockery.
I looked at him, silently pleading, only to cringe at the unforgiving coldness I saw in his eyes.
Ice . . .
He was angry, incredibly angry . . . but behind his anger he failed to fully mask his hurt. And even then I never could have guessed to what extent.
His eyes bore into me, hating me, as he said, "I never thought to make YOU prove yourself to ME." He laughed again, a deranged, hollow sound that resonated in my mind, haunting me long after we parted ways that night. "I had to earn your trust. But mine you just took, just like that."
I made an effort to wipe the tears from my cheeks, breaking eye contact with him. But nothing I did could help me block out his words, and the true story they told.
"All along you said you wouldn't be played with . . . but I was your plaything all along, wasn't I?"
"No," my whispered denial sounded pathetic even to my own ears.
"WASN'T I??" He shouted, his anger suddenly exploding out of his control. He leapt up off the bench and started to stride up and down in front of me, his footsteps tearing up the sand. I just sat there, feeling helpless and miserable. "You bitch. You frigid, manipulating BITCH."
I deserved every word of that, I knew, except maybe frigid. That's a little unjust, as, if memory serves, HE was the one who kept saying no to ME.
But the rest he had about right.
I watched him glare at me, his hands balled so tightly into fists that they were shaking. His temper had rapidly escalated into violence and I had to admit that for once, I was truly scared of him.
"It's kind of unfair, don't you think?" He asked suddenly, possibly angered more by my silence. "I finally manage to convince you that I wasn't just after a root and scoot . . ."
I winced. He was right. Even if his choice of words was debatable, he was right.
" . . . and now you're running away." He leaned over and pressed his hands on the backrest of the bench, on either side of my shoulders, effectively trapping me in place. "What did you WANT from me, Melinda?"
Miserably I straightened up and met his furious eyes.
"What the FUCK did you WANT from me?"
I didn't reply. I couldn't. For once . . . I had no answer.
He let out a frustrated sound and smashed the backrest of the bench with both fists, and I let out a small gasp as I felt myself falling backwards as the backrest parted company from the seat—only I didn't fall. Nick grabbed my arm in a grip so tight I feared for my circulation and yanked me forwards before I could fall.
This did nothing at all to ease my terror.
"Nick," I pleaded in a soft voice, blinking back tears. "Please . . . just let me go."
He knew I wasn't just talking about my arm.
Wordlessly he stepped back away from me, releasing my arm, which had begun to throb.
"Nick . . ." I murmured to his now turned back, having completely forgetting his earlier warning about apologies, "I am so, so sorry—"
"Just shut up!" he exclaimed, turning back to face me, his voice sounding strained as he tried to control his fury. "Just fucking shut up! I can't listen to your SHIT! I loved you, Melinda. I LOVED YOU!"
Tears streamed unchecked and unheeded down my face and all I could do was stare disbelieving up at him.
He'd . . . loved me?
How could he have . . .? Even though I . . .?
"You . . . you loved me?" I searched weakly for some sort of confirmation; half expecting him to take it back and say something along the lines of whoopsie daisies—slip of the tongue.
He frowned slightly. "You really didn't know?"
. . . No.
I knew he LIKED me, had a soft spot for me . . . but LOVE? I didn't think he was capable of LOVING me.
Yet, sometimes, some of the things he said did make me wonder—
Still. I thought it was just another of the many dubious gifts from my wistful subconscious.
A trick of the mind . . . Deception of the senses . . . Wistful thinking . . .
Because I would have liked very much to think that he was in love with me. Just like I . . .
Like I was in love with him.
"You did love me," I said with a shock of realisation that made me feel like I'd been hit by a bus.
"Well," he said with another of his haunting, bitter laughs that never in a million years would have passed for a sound of mirth. "I can't really just STOP. I fucking love you. And I thought, I THOUGHT, even if you couldn't say it, that you loved me back."
. . . he was right. I did.
I do.
I love him . . .
But I knew, even as I realised this, I knew that even this couldn't block out the small voice at the back of my mind, knew that it was useless to think that this could make a difference . . . I knew.
I knew it was time for me to dispel the illusion.
"You do," Nick said suddenly, realisation alive in his voice.
I bit my lip.
Nick was silent for a moment, and then he said, slowly, like he was saying the words directly as he thought them, with no time for reflection or consideration, "Melinda . . . I don't know what this is for . . . why your doing this . . ." then with sudden alarming clarity, "you're lying to me, aren't you? You don't really want—WHY?"
Alarm sirens began screeching in my head.
I'd forgotten how well he knew me.
"No," I said, my voice no longer indecisive, my tears dry. "I've just realised . . ."
WHAT?? I've just realised WHAT?? I asked myself, feeling the waves of panic relentlessly harassing me. What could I say?
Somehow I thought 'its not you, its me . . .' was a no go.
I knew I had to lie to him. And I knew that my lie would have to hurt him.
"It's just . . ." I said slowly, then, as I decided on my words, I inwardly winced. "I'm bored. You're not enough."
If he could believe this, believe this of me . . .
I had to. One day he might understand.
"Well," I gave a flip little smile and a shrug as I got to my feet. "You just weren't what I thought. And I—"
Oh God. I've got something. Something that would definitely hurt him . . .
"—I've found someone who IS what I want," I finished.
I watched silently as the effect of my words sank in, and hated myself.
"Who?" he asked quietly.
"Oh, I don't think I should—"
"Who?" he repeated with more intensity than before.
"Nick, please don't do this."
"WHO??" he shouted suddenly, "tell me Melinda! Tell me who he is—why wont you tell me his name?"
Because he doesn't have a name! I screamed silently. Or if he did, it would be yours!!
Name . . . I thought wildly, I need a name . . . someone who Nick would leave alone . . .
"Scott Jensen," I said the first name that came into my mind, not pausing to consider any possible—ok, probable—negative repercussions my words could have.
"WHAT? Does Arabia . . . wait." He stared at me shrewdly, and I experienced some violent misgivings.
He didn't believe me. It just would never happen. I wouldn't do that to Arabia, and SCOTT wouldn't do that to Arabia.
"Ok," I said quickly, "I lied. Chad. Chad Williams, the football player. But I think you know him from the track team."
I watched this sink in.
"No fucking way." Nick said flatly, but not disbelievingly this time. "I TOLD him to stay the fuck away from you—"
I jumped on this as a way to turn the tables. "You WHAT? You told him to—how DARE YOU!"
"Melinda," he shot me a look of pure icy venom. "Shut up. People who cheat on their boyfriends really can't lay any right to high moral ground."
TRUE.
But I'd scented a decent argument that might distract him a little from his previous train of thought and I wasn't going to let it go. "What did you say to him?"
"For Christ's sake—"
"No. Tell me."
"It's not—"
"I have every right to know."
The painful feeling of constriction in my chest was getting stronger, but I ignored it and pressed on, even thought I must have known, deep down, that this wasn't doing any good.
"I didn't like how easily you two got on," Nick gave in and supplied, no longer meeting my gaze but now staring out at the rough ocean. "I didn't like how he looked at you, and I thought, as you were my girlfriend, I was perfectly entitled to threaten to bash the cunts face in."
His eyes came back to meet mine and I couldn't help but gasp at the unyielding hatred I saw there—yet I couldn't tell if that hatred was for me, or himself.
"How was I to know that you were fucking him at the time?" Nick finished, deliberately crude.
I gritted my teeth and didn't deny it.
"Slut," He said coldly, prompted by my silence. "Bet Chad found that a bit of a laugh. Me telling him to stay away from my girlfriend when he knew all along that it was HIS cock you'd been sucking to pass the time."
Ok, now this was getting a little hard to hear . . .
Nevertheless, I gritted my teeth and lifted my chin as I said in an emotionless voice, "Yeah. Sorry about that."
His expression! I would have given ANYTHING to have been spared that sight. He looked like he'd been punched in the face by Samuel-mutha-fukin-L-Jackson.
He looked so . . . betrayed.
I froze my expression in place and refused to take my words back. I even gave a dismissive little toss of my head—even though it was killing me to imagine what the gesture might have meant to him.
Was it good or bad that he believed me?
Mutely Nick came back and sat back down on the now wrecked bench.
I moved to sit down beside him, putting distance between us on the seat to further emphasise my point—cruel, I know—and sat with my spine slightly hunched and my hands gripping the edge of the seat.
Looking for all the world like a guilty and disgraced bitch who was a cruel user to people who deserved better.
Coincidentally, this was exactly how I was feeling . . . just not for the reasons I'd given Nick.
We sat there in silence for a few minutes, every second of that I used to worry about what he was thinking, what he might do, what he was thinking about saying, what he was thinking about doing . . .
Because as well as I now know him—And I know him well, I think. I know that when he was a kid he wanted to be a DENTIST, (of all things,) I know all about the pet turtle he'd had as a kid, I—well. Whatever. Didn't matter now.
I still didn't know what he was thinking.
And as if endorsing this, Nick surprised the shit out of me by looking me in the eyes and saying calmly, "I don't believe you."
I just about choked.
What would it TAKE??????????
"Nick, please—"
"No, YOU please. Tell me what the fuck is going on here, and stop LYING TO ME."
"What will it TAKE?" I screamed at him, loosing it completely. "Do I ACTUALLY have to go and fuck Chad or Scott or WHOEVER??? Should I do it in your HOUSE?? In your room?? With your DAD??? WHAT???"
Nick pulled a disgusted face. "Please don't have sex with my father."
"Well would it WORK??" I shouted, incensed, "Because—"
He just laughed.
This made me madder.
"Nick, PLEASE," I begged, dismayed to find myself crying again. "Please . . . just . . . let it go. Let me go."
He looked at me seriously for a moment. Then he pulled me to my feet and we stood there together, me staring off at the sea as he rested his chin on the top of my head.
I should have pulled away.
I knew I had to.
But it was something about physical contact between Nick and myself that just made me think, not yet. Not yet—just give me a few more seconds.
"Ok then." Nick said, lifting his head and wrapping his arms around me.
I looked up at him, trying to make my face impassive.
"I can forget," he said, "about all of this . . . I can forget you, creeping into my room in the middle of the night because you dreamed that you got chased by a giant Starbucks cappuccino—was that it?"
"Shutup," I muttered. "It was like 20 feet tall."
He smiled tolerantly and continued, "I can forget about you in the men's toilets, not sure wether to be more worried about how you'd crashed my car, or the wall urinals—"
This time I decided that silence was my best form of defence.
Because I'm a chick, after all. I can't help it that wall urinals freak me out.
"—I can even forget that you just threatened to have sex with my father . . . which he would probably be all for, by the way—"
"Eww." I muttered. It didn't hit me until much later just how low Nick's opinion of his father was.
"—I can forget about all of that. I can forget about YOU if . . ." this is when I noticed that as he raised a hand to stroke my cheek with the back of his fingers, that his hands were trembling slightly. " . . . If you can look me in the eyes and tell me that you don't love me, that you never did."
Heavy silence me the end of his words. All I could do was stare.
I felt like I was about to choke, I had to concentrate to draw air . . . I pushed myself out of his embrace and turned my back on him.
I couldn't let him see my face until I was sure I had my expression under control.
I looked down at my sandals and tried to take deep breaths. Tried to keep breathing.
I had to do this. For him. I HAD to!!!!
Even though I felt like I was about to shatter into a thousand pieces, like my lungs would explode . . .
I had to.
So . . . I did.
I took a deep breath, and pushing aside any thoughts of consequence, I turned and looked him directly in the eyes and then, in a voice that I like to think hardly shook at all, I lied to him and said:
"I don't love you."
Then I turned, deliberately not letting myself look at his eyes, and I walked away.
Away from him.
And away from me.
X-X-X
Now I know that not many of you darling readers will have liked this. In fact, I see THE SILENT TREATMENT somewhere in my imminent future.
But think about it.
In New Moon, didn't you just HATE it when Edward left? I know I did. I was ready to cry.
"You're not good for me" indeed!
But I'm sure that you, like me, understood the necessity of it. He had to go; his characterization demanded it, as did the plot—as the author has explained.
Please try to understand why I did a similar thing in this chapter. Melinda honestly believes she has no other choice, and just like when our favourite Cullen left, you don't have to like it. Just review it. lol.
So please don't break my heart: REVIEW.