A/N- Okay, I know it's kinda been a few of weeks since I last updated, but…well…I kinda got introduced to a certain Supernatural and, well, one season turned into two turned into three…you get where I'm coming from. I'd apologise, but I'm totally hooked, especially since I'm only now on season five out of nine, so it might be like this for a while… anyway, big ol' thanks to Guest 1, Guest 2, tangle-of-ivy, Rissa-channn and Iris RainbowWolf for reviewing!

Chapter Five- Sister Act

I'd never been in a private jet before. Why would I have been? Despite having relatively well-paid jobs, my parents had been an economy-flight type of couple, so any family holidays abroad were flown that way, including my solo flight over here. So reclining here in Arthur Tressler's very own private plane, I felt like the Queen.

It was set out like a long, thin hotel room with beds and chairs and a TV, not to mention free WiFi. So what did I do? I opened up my Nintendo DS and started playing on Super Mario Bros. I was sitting on a white leather seat with my legs stretched out on the seat facing me, across the aisle from Jack, who was talking to Jasmine, Arthur's personal assistant.

They were sitting in a four-person block, but it was just the two of them sitting there, having a good old-fashioned laugh. I couldn't help but keep stealing little sideways glances at them, feeling more and more wound up on the inside every time I did. Oh goodie, I was having an attack of the green-eyed monster. Twenty-one years old, and jealousy still managed to hit me like I was back in high school.

I shifted my legs so I was sitting curled up in the seat in my purple shorts and red vest, glaring at the screen of my DS as little Mario hopped over and under some pipes. I plugged in my headphones, the tinny electronic music drowning out their conversation. Oh my God, I was getting more pathetic by the day. I closed my eyes, trying to let the upbeat techy Mario music drag me away, but I couldn't help it. He was always on my mind, drowning me in my own thoughts.

Oh Jack. Sometimes I think I want to hate you. More than that, I'm convinced that I want to hate you. I want to hate you for making me feel special, for caring about me, so that I make myself believe that I have even the smallest chance of being with you.

I want to hate you for being my best friend in the whole world, but for only being that, and for talking to me, and for acting as if you actually enjoy being in my company. I want to hate you for making me laugh. I want to hate you for being so perfect for me, and I want to hate you for you not knowing what your mere presence does to me, and to hate you for not knowing how you make me feel.

I want hate you for making me feel like I hate myself. I want to hate myself for allowing myself to fall for you, because I know that nothing can ever happen between us. I want to hate myself for ignoring my head screaming at me to try and see sense. I want hate myself for not having more self-restraint. And I want hate myself for the internal wreck I become every time I see you.

But most of all, I want to hate you because I can't hate you. I want to hate you because the feelings are there, and they hurt like someone's stuck a poker into my heart. And I want to hate myself because I can't do anything about it.

I opened my eyes and removed my headphones, forcing myself back to reality and pulling myself away from the depressing thoughts trying to swallow me up. Jack was still sitting with Jasmine, smiling away, having a jolly good time. I hated her. I barely knew her, and I hated her. I hated her because she was making him laugh, making casual chit-chat and spending time with him. She had taken my place and I wanted it back. Oh, it looked like my Psycho Bitch side had reared its ugly head. See, this was why I never had crushes! They turned me into an evil, paranoid, psychotic shell of myself.

I stood up, downed the rest of my complementary champagne- courtesy of Mr Tressler- followed by slipping on my ballet pumps and storming down the aisle to the toilet at the back of the plane. I locked the door behind me and sat down on the closed toilet, my head in my hands.

What was wrong with me? I had been fine yesterday after the interrogation, yesterday evening and night whilst we had stayed in the hotel next to Arthur's private hangar, and I'd been fine this morning. More than fine; in fact, I'd been borderline hyperactive. I never, ever felt like this. I prided myself on being a constant ray of sunshine, bringing joy and hilarity to people's lives. Now I was acting and thinking like a stupid surly teenager who was pissed at the world because the boy she had a crush on showed an inkling of interest in another girl.

I was so angry with myself for feeling like this, for feeling like I had some kind of claim over Jack. He was at perfect liberty to chat and flirt with whoever he liked, it wasn't like it was really any of my business. Why should I care?

Yeah, so maybe I had a crush on Jack, and yeah, maybe I'd got it into my head that Jack maybe liked me back. It wasn't like I could make anything come of that, was it? No. Not if I wanted our relationship to continue as seamlessly and flawlessly as it was.

Good God, I needed to get a grip on myself. This wasn't me. I wasn't like this, I didn't think like this, and I'd be damned if I'd let myself become the cliché type of girl you saw on the 'just girly relationship things' Twitter accounts. It was at times like this that, back in England, I would have gone to my older sister for advice.

Mila was twenty-seven, and she'd always wanted to be like Mum and Dad, to go on and work in finance just like they did. She'd been to college and university and now worked at Citibank in Canary Wharf. She was beautiful, happily married and had a two-year-old son, Dean. She lived the typical middle-class London life. I'd been the rebellious one.

And now, for the first time in three years, I found myself feeling totally and utterly homesick. I missed Mila so much, and I missed Mum and Dad too. I'd barely spoken to them over this last year, maybe once a month, whereas before all this magic stuff had kicked off we'd spoken about five times a week, if not more. I missed my old house. I missed my old bedroom, with its red and white rose wall paper, and its cherry red carpet, and the white poster bed. I missed England.

Shut up! Just shut up! I thought furiously at myself, blinking any tears away, hard. This is not you! This will never, ever be you! You're supposed to be the rainbow in the storm, the ray of sunshine, the life and soul of the party! Not some bloody churlish little girl! Grow up! Get out there and show everyone on this plane why they love you so much! I hated to admit it, but I was right.

I just needed to do something that would drag Jack's attention away from Jasmine and back to me.

I stood up purposefully, shook my hair back and smiled at my reflection in the little mirror, grabbing a piece of tissue and wiping a few escaped tears away, being careful of my eye makeup. I opened the door a little forcefully and it smacked into the wall, causing everyone to turn away from whatever conversation they had been having and look at me.

I looked at them all impassively, kicked off my pumps, lifted my arms straight above my head and put one foot in front of the other. I took a small run-up and threw myself down the aisle of the plane, incorporating a flip, a couple of cartwheels and a front handspring.

There was a burst of applause as I landed just past the four seater booth where Jasmine and Jack were sitting, stopping just in front of Arthur.

"Beautiful, my dear!" he praised, holding up his champagne glass as a toast.

"One of the more common words used to describe me," I joked, taking a bow.

"You know, most people prefer to walk without feeling the need to show off at every opportunity," Danny sneered from where he was sitting closer to the back of the plane.

"Coming from you, the guy who introduces himself as 'the one and only' whenever he meets someone new?" I retorted.

"Yeah, come on Danny," said Jack, who had managed to drag himself away from Jasmine. "We're magicians, aren't we supposed to show off?" He grinned at me, and I grinned back.

"You said it, boo," I said, collapsing back in my seat across from him. "Hey, listen, fancy playing a game?"

"Depends if it's going to be one of your 'games'-" he said it whilst making the quotation marks with his fingers. "That causes me physical pain."

"Nope, this one is purely verbal," I told him, tucking my legs up. "I assume you've heard of Would You Rather?" He nodded. "Excellent."

Call it childish, but Would You Rather had been one of my favourite games since I started secondary school at age twelve. Back then, it had always been simple things, like, "Would you rather drink a bottle of vinegar every week for a whole year, or live in a sewage drain for a month and you can't ever leave during that time?"

Of course, then the hormones kicked in during Years Nine and Ten, which was when the dirtier stuff came through. We'd spend our lunch times posing each other questions like, "Would you rather watch your parents have sex whilst they're making eye contact with you and you can't look away, ever, or jerk off to a picture of your mum while she watches and you can't stop yourself?" The maturity was overwhelming in my school.

I didn't ask stuff like that now, obviously. I'd grown up a little since we left school, so I didn't ask any disturbing questions like that. And it was because of my lack of sickening questions that we managed to continue the game for a good half an hour, forty-five minutes. I felt a small, immature surge of internal victory at the fact it was me Jack was talking to, not bloody Jasmine.

If there was one thing I was noticing about this plane journey, it was that Danny was staying uncharacteristically quiet. Other than his one little dig at me, he'd been near enough silent. Merritt and Henley had been chatting up a storm, as had myself and Jack, and even Art had chipped in to the conversations a few times in between Skyping Conan O'Brien. I could blatantly see what it was that was getting to him, though.

I could see him constantly staring- or rather glaring- down the aisle at the laughing pair that was Henley and Merritt. This plane must have been cursed with jealousy, as that now made two of us that had been struck down with it. It wasn't healthy, I swear to God.

"Okay, so, would you rather…" I began, but I was cut off as Danny decided to get up and intervene between Henley and Merritt's conversation.

"Oh hey, Danny," Jack tried to interject, grabbing his arm. "Can I talk to you about my role in the show real quick?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Sure," Danny replied distractedly, patting Jack on the side of the head a couple of times. He didn't stop to listen, of course, but instead merely leant on the archway between the section of the plane we were in, and the section of the plane that seated Merritt and Henley.

"Hey guys," he said brusquely, cutting off Henley's laughter. "We've got a show to prepare for."

"Oh, do we now?" Merritt said sarcastically, standing up and advancing on Danny.

"No, no, no! Don't do that!" Danny warned, backing up a little. "You're not doing that thing to me. No, no, no."

"What thing?" asked Merritt innocently as he and Henley came through to our part of the plane. "I'm just looking at you."

"No you're not! I've been watching you for a year, I know all of your little tricks!"

"That what they are to you? Tricks?"

"Yes, it's gimmicks! It's Barnum statements! It's reading the eyes, body language. I get it."

"If it's such an easy thing, then why don't you do Henley?" Merritt suggested.

"Yeah Danny, why don't you do me?" Henley said with an innuendo-y edge to her voice.

"No, you're too easy," Danny retorted, and I sucked my breath in sharply in a 'burn' hiss. "I'll do, er, I'll do Jasmine." He clapped a hand on the assistant's shoulder. Of course. Everyone wants to do bloody Jasmine.

"No," chipped in Arthur, and we all turned to look at him. "Do me." And bingo. The plan was in motion.

"Oh yeah. Yeah, do Art," said Merritt, like the idea had only just appealed to him.

"Okay." Danny shrugged and moved to stand in front of Arthur.

"Even better," Merritt smirked as we all followed to have a good watch.

"But I warn you," said Arthur. "I can be difficult to read when I want to be."

"Just, uh, stay with me, okay?" asked Danny, using to fingers to gesture from his eyes to Art. "So Art, you were a tough kid. You know, kind of a real rapscallion. You had a dog, a real tough dog. A brutish breed. Like a real…I want to say…Ben the bulldog."

"Actually, I was a prissy little tot," Art informed us. "I had a fluffy white cat called, Snuffles!" We all burst out laughing at Danny's complete failure, and I took the opportunity to quickly take down the answer in my iPhone memos.

"Wow," Danny muttered, punching the plane wall in frustration. "Ah, sorry."

"Wait, let me try one!" said Jack, laughing still. "I can do it way better than that."

"Let him do it," said Henley, gesturing at Jack.

"Yeah," I added. "There's no way he can do as bad as you are."

"Come on, give me one more time! One more time!" begged Danny.

"He can do way better than that!" Henley insisted, still pointing at Jack.

"Let's do family," Danny suggested. "You had an uncle on your mother's side. He had a real kind of…a real masculine name. A real kind of…salt-of-the-earth, you know, a real stick-it-to-you…like it was some kind of Paul. Thompson? Was it a Paul…" Danny made a noise of exasperation. "Okay. You know what? I got nothin'."

"Nearly though," Arthur humoured him.

"Was I?"

"Yeah. My uncle's name was Cushman Armitage." Arthur started laughing again, as we all did, and again I noted the name down.

"Really? Snuffles and Cushman Armitage, that was your childhood?" Danny said.

"That, my friends, is the childhood of the typical upper-class Brit," I told them. "Not that I have much experience with that, mind, since my uncle on my mother's side is called Jason Parker."

"I certainly hope tonight's show is gonna be better than this," joked Arthur.

"Don't worry Art, we're keeping Danny far, far away from any mentalism," I promised.

"Yeah, don't worry," said Danny. "Just you wait." Yeah, because Mr Arthur Tressler was going to get the shock of his life.

We touched down in New Orleans right in the middle of Mardi Gras. This had been a dream of mine since I was a little girl, to be in the Big Easy during Mardi Gras. At first it had been all about the masks and the music and the pretty lights, but when I started learning French in Year Six, it all kicked off from there.

However, as I took in the sights of the people who were jamming the streets to the point of overcrowded, I was finding the experience less than enjoyable. As we drove to The Savoy to get ready for tonight's show, people were trying to knock on the windows of the car, trying to climb on the car and throwing beads and masks at the car so hard I thought the glass would smash. It was freaking me out. I didn't have a problem with crowds, obviously, but I did have a problem with drunk idiots.

The urge to stick my head out the window and yell at everyone to piss off was extremely high, but I had a feeling that if I stuck my head out the window then someone would tear my hair out from the roots.

"Have you guys ever been to Mardi Gras?" I asked the others, and they all shook their head. "Oh great. Anyone know the death rate from getting trampled by drunken parade-goers? Because I seriously think the second we get out of this car, we're gonna be knocked down and have our spines broken."

"Hunter, are you okay?" Henley asked, concerned. "You seem a little….on edge."

"Do I?" I said distractedly, looking out the window, not looking at her.

"Yeah, you've seemed it all morning," she replied.

"I believe I can disclose the reason behind the matter," piped up Merritt. "Hunter here is feeling-"

"It's PMS," I cut across him quickly, not allowing him to get one syllable out referring to my jealousy. "I'm like a ketchup dispenser over here." I have never seen such varying expressions of sheer disgust on four people's faces before. "Hey, I do not lower the tone. Henley, you'll know what I'm talking about."

"Oh, look at that, we're here," Danny said loudly as our car pulled up outside The Savoy, effectively cutting off any more form of disturbing talk from me.

Other than performing in the actual act itself, my favourite part of a show was the getting ready. I adored looking through the rails of dresses and skirts and tops and jackets and shoes and deciding what I'd look totally kick-ass in. The very minor hindrance that I had was that I had to wear just black; none of my trademark clashing colours. But I could rock black just as well as I could red or blue or purple or orange.

Oh my God, I'm so conceited, I thought, flicking disparagingly through the rail of dresses that had been wheeled into my dressing room two hours ago. I needed to get dressed in the next half hour, due to the show starting in an hour. Dear God, there were so many dresses, so little time.

In the end, I settled on a short black sequined cocktail dress that had sheer panelling at the sides and black crossover patent heels. I was just doing up the strap on my shoe whilst simultaneously looking at my hair in the mirror when there were three quick knocks at my door.

"If you're not Danny, come in, I'm not naked!" I called. "But if you are Danny, please piss off. I see enough of you during the day as it is!"

I heard a familiar throaty chuckle outside the door, which opened, revealing Jack. "Nope, just me," he said, coming in and closing the door behind him.

"Jack, my darling," I said warmly, swinging around on my revolving chair and grinning at him. "What can I do ya for?"

"I've got your, er, tracking bracelet," he said, holding up the clunky black wardrobe abomination.

"Are you kidding me?" I whined. "Does Dickbrain seriously want us to still wear these? They're hideous!" The 'Dickbrain' in question was obviously the one and only (ah, satire) J. Daniel Atlas.

Jack nodded grimly, rolling up the sleeve of his white shirt and showing me his.

"It's like Danny wants me to kick him in the nuts," I muttered, taking my tracker from his hand and fixing it around my wrist. "My God, look at the hideousness," I said disgustedly, holding my arm up and letting the light shine on the bracelet.

"I think it looks nice with the dress," Jack said ironically, sitting down cross-legged on the floor.

"I really hope you're joking," I said, still staring at the bracelet in disdain. "Urgh, no! I can't do it! I cannot cope with it messing up my outfit! It was bad enough the last show where it was clunking up my attire!" I leaped up out of my seat and started rummaging through the accessories box given to me.

"You know Danny will throw a shit-fit if you don't wear it," Jack pointed out.

"Yeah, yeah," I said. "Trust me, I am more than aware of that little fact." Before the last show in Vegas, I'd been busted by Danny trying to cut my tracker off with a pair of industrial scissors. He was so pissed, his face turned puce and I think he was about thirty seconds away from kicking me in the uterus.

"I just," I continued. "Want to try something…" I grabbed a pretty black cuff bracelet and fastened it over the top of the ugly tracker. "And bada bing, bada boom, there we have it. Less ugly, more dayum."

"Well, I wish I could do that with mine," Jack joked.

"I'm sure you could," I said, fastening a red rose necklace around my neck. "It would just look a bit…um…feminine."

"Something I'm definitely not," Jack insisted, laughing.

No, you definitely aren't…I thought wistfully, then internally punched myself. No! Stop with the thoughts! Remember your self-motivation speech earlier! It. Can. Not. Happen.

"I beg to differ," was what I said aloud, grinning cheekily at him.

"Hey! I'm completely masculine!" he protested.

"Sweetheart, no man should be able to pull off a leather jacket the way you do," I informed him. We both laughed again.

Yeah, being honest here, these moments were what had made my last year not totally stressful. Jack and I spending time together, alone. It was easy, calming, relaxing. We bounced off each other so easily, never taking offence from what we said, very rarely taking each other seriously. We'd have the perfect relationship, but there were two key element missing: romance and reciprocated feelings.

Suddenly, there was a knock at my door again. Now I definitely wasn't expecting anyone. I looked at Jack, my eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Any idea who that is?"

Jack looked equally confused. "No. Danny, Merritt and Henley are all with each other sorting out the lights or something."

"Um, okay," I said slowly, standing up and hesitantly making my way towards to the door. "What is this then? Oh fuck, is this some Paranormal Activity-esque prank for an episode of Punk'd? If that's what this is, I've known it the whole time!" I shouted at the door. I heard some rustling outside the door, and a few seconds later a napkin slid under the door, with something written on it in black eyeliner. I bent down and picked it up.

"What's it say?" asked Jack.

I was too busy reading the note to reply. Just open the bloody door, Zee! X

"Oh my actual God!" I shrieked, dropping the note and wrenching the door open. There leaning against the frame, was a gorgeous young woman with long silky brown hair that reached her waist. She was dressed in white skinny jeans, a black silky pussy bow blouse and black stilettos, and she was grinning so widely at me I thought her face would split in half.

"Mila!" I cried, throwing myself at her.

A/N- Okay, so I know in this chapter Hunter came across as being a little whiny and out-of-character, but she's in a rough place with all these weird feelings that she isn't used to. She's still immature at heart. But even so, I hope you liked it! Lemme know what you thought, you know I loves me some reviews! Xx Gee xX

PS- On my profile, there is now a link to a picture of the actress I'd have play Mila in the movie. Check that out, along with Hunter's actress and my Polyvore collection!

References: Okay, the whole "Would you rather watch your parents have sex whilst they're making eye contact with you and you can't look away, ever, or jerk off to a picture of your mum while she watches and you can't stop yourself?" was NOT my own disturbed invention, I swear to God. It's paraphrased from a Funny Or Die video called 'Would You' starring a certain Dave Franco. FYI, if you haven't seen it…don't. Because you will want to bleach your eyes afterwards.