Oh wow. I really haven't updated in far too long, due to new found obsessions with Les Miserables and Glee. But I'm back now, and back to stay and this story is finally getting to the good bit. There's a lot in this chapter, even though it's pretty short. Next chapter something big is going to happen, but for now enjoy something a bit of fun. Thanks as always to Lil Badger 101 for all your support, and to those new people who favourited and followed. Let me know what you think or give me any ideas if you have them.
"It's not here." she said.
But Greg wasn't listening. He was too busy watching the rapidly approaching black van. Brooke followed his gaze and gasped.
"That doesn't look like the sort of van friendly people would own." she whispered.
"Quick!" Greg yelled, pulling her down behind the bins.
"Deja vu." he remarked, and she stiffled a giggle as they heard the van pull up and the door open. Then there were footsteps.
"These footprints weren't here yesterday." A mans voice said.
"Looks like a guy and a girl. Fresh." another man added.
"Let's follow them." the first guy replied.
Greg and Brooke looked at each other, their eyes widening. This was bad.
They held their breath but within a few seconds, they heard breathing just beside them.
"You two again?" one of the men laughed.
They looked up.
"Scared you." the other added.
They breathed mutual sighs of relief. It was just the CSIs.
"That's a pretty menacing van." Greg told the two guys.
"The Denali? Standard issue, we all have them."
"Freaked us out." Brooke shivered.
"What are you two doing back here?"
"Lost my keycard here last night." Greg explained.
"Did you find it?"
"Unfortunately not."
"That sucks."
"How's the case?" Greg asked them.
"Not very good. Came back here to see if we'd missed anything but I doubt we're gonna get anywhere."
"We should probably be going. Come on Greg." Brooke cut them off.
"Alright. Bye. Good luck." Greg yelled ad she dragged him away.
"Told you." she whispered to him.
It was later that night, when Greg and Brooke had done some more shopping and decorating and were at a pizza place they'd discovered when Brooke brought it up again.
"Told you they wouldn't solve it."
"It's been less than twenty four hours. Give them time."
"They aren't going to solve it."
"Wait and see."
"What do you want to do tonight?" she asked him, changing the subject.
"I feel like going out." Greg told her.
"Except for the fact that we know nobody in this city." she reminded him.
"Yeah, clubs are no fun with just two people." he agreed.
"We need to make more friends."
"I know how."
Greg pointed towards a sign outside the posh hotel they were passing. MASKED BALL FOR MEMBERS OF NEW YORK CHORAL SOCIETY TONIGHT 8PM.
"You've got to be kidding me."
"I've always wanted to go to a masked ball."
"Do you know who the New York Choral Society are? Only one of the most prestigious groups in this whole..."
"They don't sound like a barrel of laughs. We'll have to fix that."
"We're not in the choral society Greg!"
"We can sort that out."
"I didn't exactly bring any ball clothes. Or masks. And The ball starts at eight. It's..." she checked her watch "seven twenty two."
"Then we don't have much time. Come on." He took her by the hand and dragged her down the busy New York street, dodging several angry people moving in different directions and several yellow taxis. She squealed as he tugged her around corners and into crowded lanes. Finally, he pulled her into a small, quiet boutique. An old Italian woman sat behind the desk, surrounded by rackfulls of dresses.
"Questa ragazza ha bisogno di un abito da ballo. Tornerò per lei in 20 minuti." He pressed a wad of cash into her hand. "Tenga il resto." Then, he was gone,
He was back in nineteen minutes, still wearing his jeans and t-shirt. By then, Brooke was wearing a long coral dress, gathered at the top with a floaty skirt. He lifted her up onto the counter and slipped a pair of silver heels onto her feet.
"Greg..." she began, but he grabbed her by the hand and quickly pulled her back out onto the street. He yelled "Grazie!" as the door slammed behind them. It was seven forty three by then. Brooke began to protest, but Greg whirled her into an alleyway so quickly that she had the breath knocked out of her. He led her through a door into a beauty salon, where there were already several people waiting for her.
"Alright Brooke this is Sandra, she's going to be doing your nails, Sasha will do your make-up and Paulo will do your hair. Be back for you in... twelve minutes."
And he was gone again. Brooke sighed, and then she was whisked away by the three beauticians.
When he returned, it was seven fifty five.
"Brooke, you look beautiful." he told her. "You guys did a great job." he told the others. Then, he offered her one of the two masks he was holding, the one in coral to match her dress. They left again. They were nearly back at the hotel when Brooke realised something.
"Greg! You're still in your jeans."
"Oh damn." he cursed. "Detour."
He pulled her quickly into a department store. They ran along together for a while, then she lost him behind a rack of ties.
"Greg?" she called out.
"Yes?" he asked, emerging from the checkout desk dressed in a full tuxedo.
"You are unbelievable." she laughed.
"Well you better believe it, we're going to that ball."
He checked his watch, it was seven fifty nine. They were going to make it.
They ran along the main street together, dodging cars, people, bikes and several buses. They slipped their masks on as they ran into the foyer of the hotel.
"Mr and Mrs Fradeline." Greg told the lady at the table. She nodded at them and opened the door. Greg checked his watch. One minute past eight.
"How did you do it?" Brooke asked him.
"Easy. Saw that dress place before when we were walking, dropped you off, found a beauty salon place and booked stuff, got you some shoes, bought some masks, snuck into the hotel, "borrowed" a jacket from the concierge guy, answered the phone loads of times til I got a cancellation for the ball. Then I took their names but didn't tell the lady letting people into the ball. Easy."
"You speak Italian?"
"A little. I had an Italian girlfriend once."
"Course you did. These old dudes don't look like much fun."
"I know how we can make this night more interesting." he smiled. "Dare you to go pour some of this in the punch bowl." Greg produced a flask from his trouser pocket. It had a crest on it, and bore the last name Olaf. She sniffed it, it was vodka.
"Greg!" she giggled.
"Don't get caught." he told her. She giggled and took the bottle from him. She returned a minute later, laughing hysterically.
"Done. Now you. I dare you to find a way to switch the music, I have my ipod in my purse and I noticed speakers by the punch table."
"If that guy playing the "fantastic" music on the piano for us has much more of your spiked punch he's gonna be out pretty soon. I'm going for it."
"Much better." she smiled when he came back, doing some sort of a dance to Ke$ha.
"I'm good at this." he replied, twirling around and finishing with and enthusiastic wave of his hands.
"Don't know how you got anybody to date you dancing like that."
"The ladies dig jazz hands."
"Of course."
They danced for a while, laughing at each other and the posh people around them getting more into the music the more punch they drunk. Greg led a very enthusiastic rendition of the macarena and they followed some old guy as he led them through the cha cha slide. Brooke offered to get them some punch, but Greg shook his head, producing another flask from his pocket, this one with a mountain scenery coupled with pine trees, a bear and the caption Lake Ohan, Norway.
"Why bother with diluted stuff when we have the real deal here?"
"Just how much alcohol do you carry on you at a time?" she asked.
"I only have two flasks tonight." he joked.
"I always thought only old alcoholic men carried vodka in those little flasks."
"Well, I can hardly fit a whole bottle in my pocket."
"I worry about you."
"I swear, I'm not an alcoholic. I have been known to drink a few beers with friends, around a campfire or on one of those construction sites for buildings that nobody needs. I carry vodka around sometimes for situations like this."
"Well, it certainly made tonight better." She found several little cups that had been used to hold some sort of canape, and after quickly wiping them with some napkins Greg poured a little bit of the vodka from his pocket flask into each one. They lifted their honourary shot glasses and downed the first gulp.
Brooke breathed in heavily. That stuff was pretty strong. She had never really drunk before, besides glasses of wine with her parents and that one time she had ordered a Cider believing it was sparkling apple juice. But Greg was whooping and spinning her round and she could already feel herself start to loosen as the alcohol flowed through her veins. She allowed Greg to pour her another shot, but declined the third and fourth, choosing instead to observe Greg stumbling slightly through party rock anthem.
The Rascal Flatts "Bless the Broken Road" came on, and Brooke watched Greg's intial confusion at the first slow notes of the song. He stopped his jazz hands, realising they didn't go with the song and reached a hand out to Brooke instead.
"May I have this dance?" he asked her.
"I suppose you may." she giggled.
They danced and laughed, then danced some more. They both decided to go out and try and find somebody under 25 to be friends with. Brooke went over to the bar and looked around for a few minutes. She couldn't find anybody her age, so she went back to look for Greg. She couldn't have been more than five minutes. But when she returned Greg was nowhere to be seen. She searched the room, looking for his hair amongst the many shades of greys and whites. She saw her first. She was wearing a purple dress, and had long blonde hair down to her waist. Tangled in her platimum locks was short, sandy coloured, styled to perfection hair. Hair she knew all too well. Greg had her pushed up against the wall, her tongue stuck down his throat. Her hands were tangled in his hair and their eyes were closed, which was probably a good thing so that neither of them could see the tears that pricked up in her eyes.
Brooke shook her head furiously to clear them. She was being silly. He was just her friend, she knew he had a lot of girls, why should it matter to her?
She was falling for him. She was falling for Greg Sanders. This was not good.
She went to sit down again by the bar, and tried to shed light on her situation. She wasn't really falling for Greg Sanders. She couldn't be.
She watched him stumble after the girl who was being escorted back to the dancefloor by her elderly parents who turned out to be the presidents of the society.
She jumped and turned around as she felt a hand on her shoulder. She followed the hand as it led to an arm which led to a face. A face that was not Greg Sanders. A man, probably mid thirties. And he looked like he'd been drinking a lot more than punch. She could smell whickey and cigarettes on his breath as he told the barman that he next drink was on him and handed over a ten dollar bill.
"No thank you, I'm okay." she told him, shrugging off his hand.
"Come on pretty girl, you can't be having much fun here with these old people." the man drawled.
"I.. I have to go..." she began, getting up. But then he was pushing her against a pillar, and bringing his face up so close to hers that she could feel his stubble on her face.
"Not so fast." he whispered.
"No... please..." she whimpered.
"I'm not good enough for you?" the man asked angrily.
"Nowehere near." Brooke and the man both turned around at the voice. Greg. Looking a little worse for wear, with his shirt untucked and his tie half undone and hanging slightly to the left.
"Who the hell are you?" the man asked, moving away from Brooke and staggering towards Greg.
"I could say the same to you." Greg told him. And then, in the time it took for Brooke to blink, Greg's fist was colliding with the man's face and he was doubling over and moaning.
And then he was stumbling off, holding his now bleeding nose and swearing loudly at both of them.
"Asshole." Greg said to Brooke.
"Thank you." she smiled at him.
"S'nothing." he smiled back.
"Madam, will you be wanting that drink?" the barman interrupted them both, holding the ten dollars the man had left behind.
Brooke started to say no, but Greg cut her off.
"Yes, she will." he turned to Brooke "you deserve it after that."
Brooke allowed Greg to pull her back onto the dancefloor and teach her some sped up version of the waltz he had learned in elementary school. She drunk about two sips of her drink before passing it to Greg who downed the rest of it. By now, she could hear the way his words were slurred and the things he was saying were beginning to lack sense and relevance.
"Broooooooooke..." he slurred, taking her hands and twirling her around.
"Oh Gregory." she sighed, as he stopped and staggered around dizzily.
"Brookie." he chuckled.
"Greggie. Time to get you back to the hotel."
"Alright." he mumbled, allowing her to lead him out.
They got back to the hotel and she helped him up the stairs as he babbled non stop about non sensical things.
"What's amazing about penguins is, the mothers go on that big long trip to get food and all the fathers stay together to mind the eggs. And when it gets really cold they all huddle in together and take turns going in the middle and..."
Brooke stiffled a laugh as she led him down the hall, pulling him away when he decided to try and use his credit card to open the door to somebody elses room.
"Here you go Greg." she smiled, opening the door to his room.
He laughed and pulled her in with him.
"Greg, it's late, you need to go to bed." she told him.
"Still trying to get me into bed Brooke?" he asked her, his voice suddenly lower, and the space between them suddenly feeling a lot smaller.
He closed the gap, pushing her up against the closet and kissing her.
Once she got over the initial shock, Brooke felt everything slip away around her, because all there was was Greg. He tasted like vodka and cherry menthol chewing gum and something she couldn't name but was Greg. Definately Greg. This was Greg. And he was very drunk. This was not a good idea. She broke away and he moaned at the loss of contact.
"Come backkkk..." he whimpered.
Brooke looked into his eyes as he trapped her against the closet with one arm on either side of her. Puppy dog eyes. It would take a lot more then that to convince her. She ducked under his arms and freed herself. But before she even had time to catch her breath he had pulled her down onto the bed with him. She opened her mouth to protest but he kissed her again, and she found herself melting beneath his touch. Her hands fell loosely around his neck and he rolled over onto her, never breaking contact.
No. This was not happening. Not even for Greg Sanders.
"Greg, I gotta go."
"No you don't. Stay."
"No Greg. Goodnight."
When Greg woke up the nest morning with a pounding headache, still wearing his tuxedo the last thing he would remember would be playing truth or dare with Brooke. The last thing she would remember is the taste of his lips and the regret she felt when she left him on the bed, looking confused, hurt and very drunk. It was the first time she had seen him completely lost like that. His confidence and natural zest with life was gone, and he was just a very drunk, confused guy. He would appear at her door the next morning just out of the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist, asking what happened. She would tell him that he got drunk and they went home. She had delivered him to his room. She would leave out the part about the girl at the ball, and the part about her. Then, he would complain about his headache and they would go out to get coffee and aspirin. Their ease with conversation would return, and soon they would appear to be back to normal. But for Brooke, it would never be quite the same again. She wouldn't be able to look at him without wondering what could have been.
And what might never be again. Because earlier in the day, Greg and Brooke had gotten involved in something they shouldn't have. It was something dangerous, something bigger than anything they were used to back at home. And it was coming.
"Questa ragazza ha bisogno di un abito da ballo. Tornerò per lei in 20 minuti." Is she needs a ballgown. I'll be back in 20 minutes and "Tenga il resto." is keep the change. At least according to Google translate. Please feel free to correct my Italian. Also I made that lake in Norway up. Reviews are my kryptonite.