John just kept hearing that little whisper of realization, she is not your enemy. All the ambient noise that was around him seemed to slowly fade: the old jukebox on the far wall, the chatter, the laughter, the clatter of dishes. He'd barely taken a bite of his food and now it was getting cold. His dog was probably wrecking the abandoned platter, wresting the hamburger meat from the bun, gobbling it in big pieces and then gorging on as many french fries as he could swallow.
Let Pacer have a good time stuffing himself. John didn't care.
All he cared about was ... what? This moment? This young woman? Or did he care about his career, about the shambles his own life was in: his wrecked apartment, the horrible, choking loneliness he'd swallowed back that afternoon when he told Toby to marry Bea as soon as possible? Did he care about optics? Max, Anderson, Robinson and even Toby, who had an air of innocence, would absolutely murder him if they saw him in here. If they saw him talking to her. They would draw their weapons, shoot to kill every last one.
Yes, it was she who concerned him, she who he cared about at this moment in time. She had a name. Maddie had said it was Jeanie. An odd name, that, for this girl, John thought. Jeanie...he didn't know her last name.
John stood there tongue-tied and lost staring into Jeanie's dark eyes, staring at the bruise. At the scar across her ear that he saw as her hair moved as she turned her head, speaking to Tsia. How the scar nipped at her neck, stopping just shy of it at the jaw line, the place a man would kiss slow and sensual. How another tendril of the scar brushed Jeanie's cheek.
Face to face with her and unable to say anything, John knew without shame he was fixated on her physical beauty. He had been that day, as well: February twentieth. He'd been overwhelmed with relief that she had been unconscious and breathing and not dead. His easy lie to Anderson that day that she was dead was partly to shield her from being dragged out from the wreckage by Anderson, thrown in the back of a van, and taken to be interrogated; but it was also out of selfishness. He'd wanted to preserve the moments before, the ones without Anderson and his grunting comment of "what a waste. Reds sure know how to breed pretty, don't they?"
John had not realized she had been seriously hurt. EarthOutfitters had been pitch black that morning. The electricity was blown for five miles in either direction by the force of the blast. In fact, the entire mall was dangerously blown out.
Windows of stores adjacent to EarthOutfitters were shattered and there was glass strewn hundreds of feet in all directions down the corridors. Fire sprinklers were gushing uncontrollably from almost every store on that floor. Car alarms blared for miles outside and their reverberations mixed with the roar of crumbling walls, cracking windows and crashing pipes into something deafening. Greendale Mall was a micro-war zone, one that could be filled with enemy combatants waiting to burst from hiding places. Somehow though, given the level of destruction, John doubted it. He also didn't trust the official story they'd gotten in a rapid debrief.
As they'd picked their way carefully into the epicenter, John, Anderson, and Rob had all switched on their high-beam flashlights and John had dreaded stepping on random body parts. That had happened to him before. It was horrifying.
When he'd found her lying by the wall, John hadn't been able to see that Jeanie had been wounded much more severely than he'd thought; under the flashlight beam he had only been able to see blood from a superficial gash on her temple. The blood from the gash on her ear was from shrapnel that easily could have killed her. The floor, slick with the blood of others, had been covered in pulverized sheetrock, chunks of ceiling tiles and insulation, and toppled plaster rocks from the mountain climbing section.
Now nearly two months later, he often thought he could smell the smoke. He caught himself randomly sniffing handfuls of his T-shirt fabric on Saturday mornings as he stood in the kitchen making coffee. But it was just his memory. He didn't actually smell like death and destruction and blood. He only remembered it.
And he remembered it because she crossed his mind more than he'd ever care to admit.
Standing there staring at her now, John suddenly felt protective of her. She seemed so fragile again. If Anderson and the others found him here, they would give him so much hell. If they ever found her ... Anderson's leering gaze and his disgusting comment flashed through John's mind.
Who knows how long they stared at one another, a thousand unspoken thoughts between them. Her expression was softer than he'd expected, not like the open hostility of her friend, Tsia.
Tsia and the other young lady hovered quite close by, making the more secluded conversation John hoped for very awkward, and completely eliminating any hope of confidentiality. Their presence seemed to shake Jeanie's confidence. She nervously looked at them, then John, and then her gaze wandered to Maddie and Jeb, the diner owners. Maddie looked both serene and calculating at the same time, if that were possible. Jeb just looked pissed.
Well, that was a change in Jeb! Normally Jeb was friendly and pleasant with everyone, and he and Maddie had known John for years ever since John had moved to Chicago. John had first stumbled on Diner 96 after a particularly tough assignment nearly twelve years ago. He'd been in his mid-twenties then, fresh meat on the Chicago Police Department's newly formed tactical force, looking to prove himself and stay alive. Back then the Alliance Warriors Society had been unorganized, scattered across the country with no hub. The Society was really more of a rumor, something talked about in hushed tones around water coolers and stakeouts.
John had come to this city from a quiet town in Vermont, with big dreams. But this undeclared Native-White war had grown so monstrous in the intervening years that sometimes, he felt it was eating his dreams alive. He wondered what it was doing to him.
He had dreamed of something bigger, back in Vermont, and gotten all that he'd wished for in Chicago. After nearly twelve years as a Vice cop, most of it as Unit Chief, he'd passed up an offer to go even higher in Chicago PD ranks. He'd traded security for a reckless gamble, joining the Federal Bureau of Investigation's local office, not knowing where it would lead. He had joined because he was a crack shot, a natural leader, a quick learner in the art of profiling what might go down and masterful at getting there first to halt it in its tracks. His work there had brought him face to face with the batshit crazies of the world.
Certainly, he hadn't known that the FBI would lead to Diner 96.
One long ago dawn, he'd walked into Diner 96, grimy and exhausted after a particularly tough assignment, looking for a cup of coffee and some peace and quiet. As he was officially off the clock then, Max Machetti had confiscated John's pager and weapons so he couldn't make any excuses and come back to the office. John still remembered that first cup of coffee that Maddie had put in his shaking hands, and the way Jeb had reassured him. The way that they'd regarded him as a human being, despite his agency jacket: that tell-tale dark blue FBI jacket with the wasp-yellow emblazoned letters.
That assignment all those years ago still visited him in his nightmares.
These two-this couple, were as odd and ill matched as it ever got. Jeb was white trash from a trailer park in an armpit in the Ozarks who'd brought his passion for Tennessee barbecue to Chicago along with Maddie, who he'd picked up on a long haul trucking route passing through Indian Country. Maddie's car had broken down, and she and her young child had been stranded. They fell in love along the U.S.' scenic roads, and one day turned the rig toward Chicago, one of Jeb's destinations. They'd never left, since then, abandoning long haul trucking for greasy spoon management.
The barbecue scene in Chicago was actually competitive and lucrative, born out of the city's booming meatpacking and slaughterhouse past. Jeb and Maddie had pooled their lives and meager savings to start Diner 96 after Jeb's famous Boiled N' Broiled Tennessee Ribs had beaten six established barbecuers' offerings in a pit grill contest in one of Chicago's oldest working class neighborhoods. The prize had been ten thousand dollars and the lease for an abandoned 'cue restaurant that had ceased operation after the great-grandchildren of the original owner didn't want to inherit the business. So Maddie and Jeb and prettied up the place, and christened it Home Cooking, but everyone called it Diner 96 because it was at the corner of 96 & Lytle.
The diner prospered, Maddie got more plump every year, and it became a haven for the war-torn. There was a war in this country, even if it was unspoken; it was terrible. Diner 96's reputation was growing amid all the violence. It's owners were kind, generous to their last dime, friendly, and genuinely cared about their customers' wellbeing.
So, what's eating Jeb? John wondered now, as he felt confidence draining while he stood there with Jeanie. Jeb was glaring at the two of them. Jeanie noticed, and turned to shrug at her friends, eyebrows raised. They urged her to leave. "I'm out of here," Mae scoffed, "I hate Feds." She rushed out without another word.
"Let's go," Tsia hissed, tugging on Jeanie's sleeve. "Now," the girl added through gritted teeth, eyes wide. Jeanie kept looking John over, though, and her eyes stopped at his right hip, where a holster held a Glock. He probably has a knife in his boot, Jeanie thought.
Tsia was pulling her away. The other girl, Mae, the one with the braids, was already outside the door, pacing.
Jeanie resisted. If I leave ...
"Jeanie! What the fuck is wrong with you!" Tsia hissed, louder this time. Jeanie shook her head, pulled away from Tsia's grasp. Her hair bounced against her shoulders, shiny and black, a curtain of onyx; a stray piece caressed one high cheekbone, as Jeanie turned back to John, dark eyes wide, lips parted. Tsia wrenched her forward, only to have her fight back and push her off.
"Leave me alone!" she commanded her friend, waving a hand dismissively toward the door, where she could see Mae almost chewing a fingernail off in anxious waiting. Tsia clucked her tongue in disapproval and got even more physical, trying to drag Jeanie away. She was a tall, slender thing, but she showed just as much force. "Get off of me! Let me talk to him, I don't need a babysitter," she said, low and guttural in anger. "Stop making a scene in here," Jeanie pleaded as Tsia finally let go. "It could be important, about my father," she panted to her friend, who had looked ready to punch or strangle her in any effort to prevent her from talking to John. Some friend, he thought.
"You're fucking insane, Jean." Tsia had a foul mouth. "But fine. Do whatever the hell you want, Mae and I aren't waiting around." Tsia stormed off and the bell on the door jangled wildly as she yanked it wide to exit, the tones vibrating as if in an infamous Chicago gale wind.
Disheveled and clearly shaken, Jeanie hastily pushed her hair out of the way and smoothed her clothes. "What, what do you want," she said breathlessly.
But John found he could't say a word. Jeanie's presence was overwhelming.
"Jeb seems to be under the mistaken impression that she's his daughter now or something," Maddie had said.
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Jeanie certainly wasn't Jeb Bridger's daughter.
Jeanie looked back at John then, and they both spoke at once.
"What-"
"I'm sorry-"
John almost smiled, but the girl clearly was not in a friendly mood. She looked anxious, almost regretting not departing with her friends while she had the chance. Ready to either attack him, or run. She wasn't armed that day, his memory whispered.
Catching her breath, her diaphragm rose and fell in a huge sigh. "What," she said, having recovered both breath and voice. She was direct, to the point. "Is this about my father?" Her accent was the slow, rich cadence of Indian Country. Her voice was velvety and it was soft.
"Your father?" John said, clearly perplexed. Who was this girl? "No, miss. I don't know anything about your father. You're name's Jeanie, right?" He felt a surge of anxiety, and wished Maddie were there to smooth things out, but she was busy with customers. Jeb was somewhere in the back, supervising the kitchen. Somewhere behind them, flames hissed under a piping griddle, and the doors of a meat smoker creaked.
The girl nodded and then looked at the floor, bunching her fingers in her hair nervously. She swallowed nervously. She looked up at him with those big, dark eyes, unsure.
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Jeanie
OK, now she was starting to get a little scared, regretting not leaving with Tsia. If this isn't about Father... her mind raced, and her thoughts were coming too fast for her words. I'm not about to say anything, she thought to herself, don't say anything.
Jeanie looked up at him, scared and confused. She twisted her fingers tighter in her hair, forcing herself to think, to speak, but found that she couldn't. With her hair pulled away from her face, she knew he was staring at the scar that ran from her ear to an imperfect, jagged stop at her jawline, right where it met her cheek. The shrapnel had barely missed slicing into her neck. Which would have killed her. She felt hideous, suddenly. And he was so handsome.
Don't lie to yourself, she thought wryly, You noticed him the minute he walked in, with that amber-colored dog at his side. How could you have missed him with that easy stride, that confidence, that shaggy, blondish hair in unkempt waves around his jawline, that body? He's hot.
She swallowed, hard, feeling his puzzled gaze. His eyes ... were they green or blue? Risking another look at him, Jeanie realized they were green. Lines across his forehead had crimped in confusion, maybe concern.
He looked annoyed at having to repeat himself. "John Smith, federal agent. Whoever you are, I am not here about your father, Miss. If you're name's Jeanie, I need to speak with you." He showed her his federal badge again. She glanced at it and he put it back in his pocket. Jeanie was dizzy with his handsomeness, and her gaze was wandering down past the pocket, past the holstered weapon. To... Quickly, she tore her gaze up to his midsection, and then found that she couldn't look at him at all. She stared at the floor. Her heart was hammering and her pulse was practically arterial; he had caught her staring at him like that. So openly, with such inappropriate interest, such ... animal desire. What is wrong with me? she thought. Tsia and Mae would just laugh, just mock.
Taking a deep breath, Jeanie managed to meet his gaze. The heat creeping up her neck to her face was unbearable. "Sir?" she shakily whispered. Her apology wasn't even out of her slow, stupid mouth before he spoke again.
"So, Jeanie, is it? What's your last name?" He had planted his feet, squared his shoulders, crossed his arms, all imposing authority. He looked down at her with smug superiority, but there was the ghost of a smirk on his lips.
"Leclair," she whispered, so softly she had to repeat it for him. Her mouth had gone dry with shame, fear, and confusion. He has a gun, her mind kept pounding ominously, he's here for me and will probably drag me away and kill me ...
"Well then. Jeanie Leclair." John Smith's mouth played with her name, sounding it out with amusement. Or so she thought. She couldn't hear very well. Everything was so hard these days. She was so tired.
She was so tired that her thoughts ran in weary, paranoid circles. John Smith was probably thinking, This girl (hardly a young lady) couldn't have a conversation with me for two seconds without blatantly checking me out. She's gutter trash, a savage whore, a violent rebel. And I have absolute power over her. He could torture me for hours, days, maybe, before I die, Jeanie thought.
Jeanie stared at John Smith, open mouthed in fear, about to faint. "What do you want?" she pleaded, "I should have left ..." she cast desperate eyes to the door, then measured with her gaze the distance between her and the door, her and the counter, anywhere for safety. Why had Maddie been talking to him? her mind screamed. Why had she not left with her friends?
"Please don't hurt me," she gasped out then, pathetic and begging. Beautiful things can be dangerous. Don't you know that? her mother's voice flashed through her mind, clear as the day they'd had that conversation, so long ago. Any visceral desire for this man was gone, flit away as fast as it had come unbidden to her, and now all that was left was fear. Fear was more primal than sex. And in her world, fear was real.
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John Smith
So her name was Jeanie Leclair, and she was something else. One minute undressing him with her eyes, the next in full fledged panic. He recognized combat stress when he saw it: it made you jumpy, fearful, and irritatingly in touch with the primal. Which was fair, because after all, you'd almost died. So what if she thinks I'm attractive and is trying to picture me naked. She's not bad, herself. Hell, even Maddie surmises after three seconds that I'm madly attracted to this girl.
The whites of Jeanie's eyes were enormous, her eyes were full of tears, and if he made any wrong moves she might scream or faint. That would never do in here, a refuge from the war outside.
John choked on the suffocating relief that she was alive, standing in front of him. She had absolutely no recollection of him; there was no recognition in her face. But she seemed confused that an armed stranger from the federal government had singled her out. He'd best spit it out. But he struggled. Jeanie's presence was overwhelming.
"Please don't be frightened." It sounded almost pleading, pathetic. He kept his voice gentle. He quickly unholstered the Glock and took out the chamber, and set the weapon, in pieces, on the empty booth table next to him. "I won't hurt you." She watched him with sheer terror on her face.
John sighed inwardly. If he dragged this out, he would never tell her.
"Jeanie. I'm an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation and I liaise with ACT." He found himself prattling on about his career in law enforcement. "I've been the liaison between the FBI and ACT for four years. I've been in the FBI for about six years. Before that ..." Some of this was unnecessary information she probably didn't care about. But she was letting him prattle on like an idiot. How polite of her, he thought wryly. His resolve quailed, all his insides quivered, and he had this insane desire to kiss her. He forced himself to speak, to level his words.
"Maddie and Jeb are friends of mine. When I came in here today, I recognized you. I want to tell you that, I ... well ... February twentieth. The EarthOutfitters bombing. I found you unconscious and bleeding. I was leading a joint group of agents and we were to round up survivors for questioning. I ... I'm so sorry ..."
Jeanie blanched, the blood draining from her face. Her hand brushed John's slightly as she abruptly clenched her fingers into a fist.
John was screaming inwardly. Just tell her-tell her you kept her safe. You didn't let Anderson drag her out of there and throw her into the back of a van.
"I told my team you were dead. So they would leave you alone." He had so many questions for her. Who had found her after he'd left, and what had happened? She was the first thought on his mind every morning when he opened his eyes and the last thought every night before he closed them.
The girl's overwhelming fear had been replaced by amazement, maybe full-on shock. She didn't say a word, but had taken on a dreadful pallor. "You should sit down," John said gently. If she fainted, that would be the last time Jeb would ever let him set foot in here. And he'd probably punch him out for it, too.
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Well. That did not exactly go as planned, John told himself. About sixty seconds after he made that suggestion, Jeanie fled. The perfume she wore lingered in her wake, something woodsy and warm with a hint of floral. So, she smells good, he thought to himself.
"Conversation went sideways?" Jesus! John startled. Maddie was so sneaky, for her bulk. Christ, the woman was practically in his ear. Where did she come from?
"God!" John chided Maddie, "Don't sneak up on me like that."
The older woman chuckled. "Jumpy, lately! Yes, you are. So what happened," she asked flatly, "looks like you scared my newest waitress off her shift tonight."
