Chapter 8

Jane

 

Michael had seen me off before he had to go to work, exchanging cell numbers with me and sending my new security detail, Romero and Felix, to retrieve my vehicle. I was standing outside of Michael’s picturesque manor when they arrived, the morning sun peeking just above the grand line of trees. Felix was driving my, now off-white, 2003 Honda Accord LX. Hundred thousand miles and it still treated me right. Meanwhile, Romero kept his black Cadillac’s engine idle. He waved his hand outside of the window, motioning for me to get inside of the passenger seat.

Clearly he’s the impatient of the duo.

I hurried myself along the rocks and dirt, opening the door and sinking back into the seat, letting him know where the station was located within the city. Before long, we were off, cruising down with the highway traffic. Romero looked like he was in his late thirties, his face marked with pocks and a few barely noticeable white scars. He tapped against the steering wheel to the beat of some classic rock music while we drove, turning his head to look at me. “Nice contacts,” he gruffed, pushing out a smile like one would pull teeth. “Long you had those for?”

“Practically my whole life,” I told him, fiddling with the volume on the radio as we changed lanes. “You’re usually not so chatty with your clients, I presume.”

“Not what I excel at,” he confessed, gripping the wheel. “Smooth talking is Felix’s game.”

“Well if it helps I don’t think you’re that scary,” I smiled over at him. He gave me the ghost of a smile and a grumble in response. “How long have you been working for Michael?”

“Bought our company for pennies on the dollar. Never knew all the details, but the rumor was that he sabotaged a number of our operations, causing us to lose clients.”

“What all do you two… do… exactly.”

Romero moved over to the passing lane and the engine of his Cadillac roared louder as we sped. “Plenty of things. Shadow clients from a safe distance, make note of who comes and goes from your property. On occasion we’ve had to place trackers on clients; usually a purse, or a watch, or a car. Whatever gets the job done.”

“I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that,” I tittered. “You’re not going to actually keep track of me 24/7 are you?”

“No,” he gruffed out, “we wouldn’t do that. We only do what we think we need to, to keep you safe.”

I wasn’t sure if he could be believed or not. “So, you’re saying your loyalty is to me?”

“No,” he affirmed, “our loyalty is to the employer first. This the exit?”

“Yeah,” I told him, noticing the red Chevy in front of us not using it’s turn signal. Asshole. “Get over--” Just as I said that, Romero flipped his blinker and aggressively made his way past a number of cars and lanes, getting us where we needed to be. “Or you know, drive like a lunatic.”

“You want to get there slow, you ride with Felix,” I think Romero was actually trying to have a sense of humor.

After Romero dropped me off at the news station, and Felix parked my car, I finished most of my work before lunch. I then made certain to head over to PetWorld. Some creepy guy with a red Cardinals hat kept looking at me while I was there, giving me an uneasy feeling. Still, I made quick work of the trip, eating a tuna sandwich and Cesar salad in the car on my drive home to feed a very happy JB.

A couple of hours passed, and I wasn’t aware of where Romero or Felix were hiding, shadowing me. Michael had been on my mind in the space between my thoughts throughout the whole day. There was one more thing I had to do before clocking out for the day, however.

***

Back out on the streets of Chaos with my camera man, Roy Elway, we made our way up to the humble and unsuspecting home on Schindler's Street. Roy let out a long and frustrated breath through his nose, plainly tired with the doldrums of the day. He was a gruff, hardworking man. Having just hit 40 years of age, his thick beard of brown was peppered with spots of white and gray. He liked to wear a purple Vikings hat.

I walked up to the brown front door with Roy just behind me. I turned to face him. "I'll try and make this quick."

Roy's dark brown eyes locked on me, and he readjusted his bulky camera. "That's what my wife said when she served me the divorce papers." He was a textbook cynic, but still provided for his son and daughter even despite what his cheating wife did to his family. "So I'll believe this damn day is over when I see it," he pushed out another annoyed breath. "If I'm lucky I'll get to drink a tallboy and plant my ass in my chair in time for Wheel of Fortune."

"Doesn't seem like your kind of show," I remarked, trying to picture him getting excited over some letters popping up on a screen. I turned to knock on the front door.

"It's the only thing that puts me to sleep."

Just after he finished that, the door's chain lock rattled, and it opened cautiously to reveal a blond haired woman. Her hair was stylized in a loose ponytail, and her eyes were a soft, bitter green. She wore a look that was all too familiar to me. One of having a specter looming around you at all hours; whispering dark thoughts into your mind, stabbing you with every person you made contact with, ripping at you in the absence of company. "Come inside," she said, soft as a morning's mist. Just what all did she suffer? I wondered then, if there was any way that I might be able to console her.

Except I knew all too well that words were pretty. And pain was an invisible monument.

We went inside and she shut the door behind us. The room was dreary with minimal lights; all of the curtains were drawn, and the sound of a clock in another room was steady enough to give me the pulse of this place. Little warmth and life lived in this house.

The woman led us into her living room and insisted that we take seat on the old, brown couch. She sat opposite of us on an equally aged blue cushioned chair; several burn marks from cigarettes peppered it. "I'm glad you could do this for me," she began, and then swallowed, correcting herself. "For everyone. You can call me Sid, but strictly for the record my name is Sidney Elizabeth Hart."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Sid." I pointed towards Roy with my head. "I'm sure you can tell what old Roy's job is here today," I gave her a small smile, and noticed that she returned the favor. "I'm Jane Chatworth."

"I've seen you on the news," she admitted, a few vibrant embers coming forth. "Used to watch you all the time," she murmured, her eyes looking away from me a moment in reflection. "Not so much... anymore."

Roy put his camera down beside him on the couch and adjusted his hat. "Lovely home you have. Sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," she replied monotonously, probably having heard it a hundred times before.

I cleared my throat and adjusted myself on the couch, sending a hand into my blouse to adjust my black bra; the damnable wire of it nipping at my flesh. Even now when I should be in the zone, my mind was equal parts worried about the mob and how I left things with Michael. There was a great unresolved tension in my core. In my head and heart. Just push those things to the wayside for now. This woman had a story that needed to be told. "We'll just be going over what you want to talk about, ask you some preliminary questions, and then when you're ready we can do this for real."

"Okay," she said, looking towards the floor and putting her hands together on her lap.

Roy and me shared a quick glance, understanding glance, and I broached the subject further to get her started. "Where would you like to start, Sid."

The sound of that clock in another room helped me count the beats of time that passed, and for a moment I wondered if Roy was right about getting out late tonight. Finally, she broke her silence. "We had a new intern where I used to work, about twelve weeks ago." She shut her eyes and her lips twisted into a grimace. "He seemed nice. No. No he was nice," Sid opened her eyes. "I say that because it felt genuine. But he's a complete monster, even if his looks make you think otherwise."

Again my mind went right to Michael. How the mob seemed so sure that he, his company, and his father were corrupting this city. I wanted to believe that he was kind and good and warm; that he wasn't all arrogance and without heart. Sidney continued: "When I first met him, he brought me a cup of coffee, and I can remember his dark chocolate curls of hair. His piercing hazel eyes that seemed to suck you in." She sucked in a breath through her nose.

"You're doing great, Sid." I hadn't known the full story on what happened, outside of the fact that, tragically, her husband had been murdered. That she claims she was a victim of the Wolf of Chaos, a serial killer that preyed on women, leaving their mutilated bodies in the streets.

"He asked me a lot of questions about the client we were working with, an advertising project for Simon & Simon Steel. Everything that I answered he soaked up. He was dangerously sharp, and at the time, it gave me respect for him." The words came out of her in a complete disgust for the man, and seemingly, for life itself. This woman had lost more than I could ever know. What else did that sick bastard do to her? "His ideas and work ethics... his charm... it pushed me to meet him outside of work. I'd told my husband about him. About this fucking--" she choked up, her hands trembling through an invisible sea of anger. "Marcus Wright. Don't bother," she scoffed, digging her nails into her thigh now, "I looked that name up before the police. Stolen identity. Stealing is what that psycho does best."

"When did you find out that something was wrong?" My heart felt restless in my chest, and I wanted to help her, I did. But I knew nothing could be done.

"When it was too late," she said. "It started with notes arriving at my door, telling me about all the ways that I was going to be... he threatened to hurt me. To hurt my husband." Her eyes began to water. "I didn't know at the time that it was him, I just reported it to the police - and the best they could offer was an 'investigation' and a night-time car outside our home. My home, now," she whispered bitterly. "The day before it happened though, I'll never forget what he said. 'Bonsoir, moncherrie.’"

"French, right?"

"Right. The next night, was when it all happened. He broke into our-- into my home." She was shaking her head, not wanting to remember, but somehow finding the resolve to continue. "There was music playing... but I don't know what it was. My husband, John, he grabbed a baseball bat that he had from his teenage years - something he kept as keepsake. He told me to stay in the bedroom and call the police. But everything happened so quick. I should have done more," the last words came out in a regretful cadence. "John went out there to see what was wrong, and after I called the police... I called out for him. But he didn't answer. I went outside of the bedroom and that was when he pounced on me." Water slipped from her eyes, trickling down her face, and my throat tightened. "When I woke up, I wasn't home anymore. I was strapped down on a table, and he was there. He was the first thing that I saw." She looked right at me once more, taking a breath. "Have you ever seen the face of someone that knows they have total power over you?"

"No," the words came out solemn, "I haven't..."

"Before then, I thought that people were just... people, you know? No good, no evil. Just shades of gray. But when I saw the way those green eyes-- No. No!” She shouted, shaking her head. “Not green, never green,” she whispered and sucked in a tight breath. “Those eyes looked through me; when I witnessed the way his lips curled into that sadistic fucking smirk." She stopped then, closing her eyes again, and the room became painfully silent. “He was getting hard from it. He-- he was embarrassed by it. When it wouldn’t go down… he had to take care of it before continuing.”

Roy, usually stoic and uncaring about our day-to-day activities, he looked over to me, an unquestionable hurt etched on the lines of his middle-aged face. He was probably imagining his daughter going through this.

Once more she found her composure. "He made me watch," she spilled, "he made me watch my husband die. And he just screamed. He begged and he pleaded that he just spare me."

I rubbed my thumb against my index finger nervously. "What did he do to you? If you're not comfortable--"

"No," she interrupted, "no you should know. Everyone needs to understand, because I don't want him to have this kind of power over me. Over some other woman." Sid wiped at her eyes slowly. "I tried to convince the police that the seven killings were related. That they were all done by him."

I didn't want to push her too hard about opening up on what happened. "I don't understand."

"Seven women in the past seven months, that's what I noticed when I started researching. Three red headed women, three brunettes, and a blond. All of them were sadistically mutilated, though in slightly different ways. When he was ripping that knife into me, slicing and cutting whatever he wanted..." Sid visibly shuddered, gasping briefly. "I kept asking him why. And all he would tell me was: Because of your hair. He said that he wouldn't touch my face... that was about the only thing that he didn't touch with a knife."

 

***

Roy and I had listened to her for an hour, then had her tell it on camera to help the city become aware like she wanted, keeping the more graphical descriptions of her torture out of the picture.

But the horror of her story stayed with me.

"Jane?" Mr. Lambert called, bringing me out of my trance. "Where did you go just then?"

"Sorry," I automatically replied, raising my eyebrows, "I've just had a very long day is all."

Mr. Lambert shifted in his chair. "Did you want to open up about Carter?"

The question hit me like a ton of bricks. Truthfully, it was the last thing I wanted to talk about. But I knew that it wasn't something that I should be hiding from; that healing came from a place of confrontation, came from absolving the power in which that thing held over you. "Maybe not today."

Mr. Lambert shook his head, his eyes cold and calculating, analyzing how next to pick apart the problems rooted so heavy in my soul. "Your family then," it was a gentle nudge, but still treading fearfully dark and deep waters.

Opening me up was a fool's game. How can you open a locked door that has no key? Sometimes at night, when the pain of it hit me hardest, I wandered into the shadowy thoughts of believing that there was nothing behind that locked door. It'd been closed for so long. I nervously played with my silver owl earring, "We talked about that before."

"You skirted around the details masterfully."

"I guess that's something I'm used to," the reply came out slow and automatic, my mind and heart trying to take refuge in the audacity that was my encounter with Michael Smoak. "Skirting, I mean."

Lambert nodded sagely. "I do not expect to make leaps," he began, leaning forward in the chair now, his energy shifting from calm, interested, and thoughtful, to something more curious. "But you will put your best foot forward, Jane." There was a subtle aggression. This was me putting my best foot forward.

"Tell me why you are so uncomfortable talking about your parents. About your home."

"They were religious," I waxed, overcome with melancholy, "I wasn't. It's as simple as that." It really wasn't.

He said nothing, simply opting to unearth the devilish artifacts of old with his eyes. In some ways, besides the obvious, they reminded me of Michael; there was an almost mystic persuasion that they held over me. Far, far different from Anna. I really wished that she would just come back.

I moved then, suddenly uncomfortable in my chair. "Let's just say that... their beliefs were very, very strict. Far removed from mine. It was," I paused then, scrambling to try and remember the last time I truly spoke with them - feeling some shadow of guilt on my soul for just trying to keep sane. "It was everything to them, and I guess it still is. Having a sacred belief."

His eyes moved slightly, reading the lines of my face like they were the braille to comprehending all that I was. "You are skirting again, but getting closer." Without warning, he abruptly, yet economically, got up from his chair. As I watched him move over towards the end of the rug, I couldn't help but think that he doesn't walk. He glides. He turned to face me, "did they wrong you?"

Wronging me was an understatement. "Yeah," I said, not wanting to give the subject as much weight as it was worth. The sweet sounds of Fur Elise swallowed up the room, coming from Mr. Lambert's pocket.

His brows went up and he sent a hand into his pocket, turning off the hauntingly beautiful piece. "Never enough time in a day," he said with a soft smile, signaling the end of our brief session.

"Sometimes it feels that way," I replied, picking myself up from the chair. "Have you heard from Ms. Fields at all?" The curiosity inside of me was nagging.

"No. I am afraid she has really kept me in the dark - same time next week?"

I nodded sagely before picking up my leather purse and heading home.

 

***

Getting home was a blessing all in itself, the day had long since drained me. It was difficult for me to connect with people, so it wasn't much this little studio that most would find claustrophobic. Kitchen, bed, living room, it all blended together aside from the bathroom. Locking the off-white door behind me, I tried to brush off the day's events. The horrors that Sidney faced, and the dangerous mission I'd undertaken with the mob.

Reaching up the back of my long sleeve blouse, I hastily dismantled my black bra with it's poking wires. This knitted rose top with it's trendy cowl was something that I managed to pick up in a thrift shop. It seemed to compliment my black Palazzo pants with it's chalk-white pinstripes. Off near the kitchen, I could hear the sounds of JB's claws scratching against the linoleum excitedly. Not a second later and a smile was on my face as he jumped up to my waist, sniffing me like he was possessed.

"Hi!" I squeaked to him several times over, giving his head of gold some pets and his chin some well earned scratchings. Once I fed JB and refilled his bowl of water, I made a trip to the fridge, pulling out a fancy chicken, broccoli, bell pepper and Alfredo mix. I dumped it all in the skillet and set my gas top to medium before moving like a zombie to my bed with the blue fitted sheets. I still had the HIM blanket that I'd bought before college; it was practically the only item that I'd kept from the times that I'd tried so hard to leave behind me.

Slipping inside the comfort of my bed, with my Christmas LED lights running along the posts like vines, I produced my phone.

My heart dropped when I noticed a missed call from Michael Smoak. Was he calling to make sure I was safe? His two shadows seemed to be doing a good enough job of that. Still, I made a note to call him back before scrolling through my contacts, dialing Anna Fields.

There was no answer. Indeed, it went straight to voice-mail. This whole sudden sabbatical was starting to perturb me. Nobody else seemed to be making a fuss about it though.

Once I'd eaten my dinner, had a fine glass of cheap Merlot, and read a few more chapters of Wuthering Heights, I found the courage to call Michael.

The cell rang in my ear, and for each moment in between, I felt my heart threatening to burst from my chest. When his velvet smooth voice called out my name, it was like a heavenly breeze against the day's relentless heat.

"It's me," I said, wishing I'd something clever to say.

"I haven't heard anything from Romero," his voice was cold, like he was overseeing things of business, but I thought that I heard a hint of concern. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, I haven't heard or seen anything. They probably have a lot on their plate, or maybe your guys spooked them."

"I'm not so sure," Michael pushed out a contemplative breath, and I pictured him leaning back in some office chair.

"Anything else you needed to discuss?" Honestly the attraction that I felt for him, as enticing as it was, kind of scared me. "I'm in the middle of something right now." Relationships were something that I couldn't do. That was taken from me.

"There is, actually. What are you in the middle of?" Right now? Battling the intoxicating sound of your voice.

"Reading," was all I could manage, heat spreading down my throat.

"Highly descriptive," his tongue dripped of sarcasm. "You make trading stock and approving shipping regulations sound like I'm doing nothing at all."

"You know just because you're charming doesn't mean you get to be an asshole. I didn't see a single bookshelf in that mansion of yours."

Michael rumbled an amused laugh from his chest. "I do read."

"You've probably never been to a library in your life." I sat up in my bed, and JB lazily loped over to my side, as if trying to listen on our conversation. "Name one book you've read," I challenged, approaching a state of genuine curiosity, barely noticing the smile on my face.

"I don't play those kinds of games," he grumbled, "besides, I'd rather be reading you." His words came out in a warm, dark seduction, like he flipped some switch.

Fire gathered in my belly, spilled lower and lower in the span of awestruck seconds. "You're a man used to getting what he wants, Mr. Smoak."

"Jane," he started, "spare me the formality. If anyone knew that I was talking with someone tasked with sabotaging my company--"

"So why are you then?" That lustful heat turned to anger and hurt. It felt condescending.

"Because I can't stop thinking about you," he said it like this was something he couldn't even fathom.

"You mean your dick."

"Tell me you haven't been thinking about me," he was authoritative now, and all the more pulling. "That night, this morning, it was powerful, Jane. I've fucked more than any man should, but your beauty pricked me and I'm here right now, bleeding. If you say there's no attraction, I'll hang up," he said it like a sworn oath. "But I want to hear you say it, Jane."

Now the words really wouldn't come. My head was fuzzy and it felt like the room was threatening to spin. My mouth opened and breathing felt impossible, as though each inhale might send needles through me. Christ almighty, is this for real? Is this what it feels like to be sought?

"Jane," his rough, royal voice said my name like a prophet on his knees, waiting desperate for an answer.

"I--" hot water was starting to fill my eyes. The last and only meaningful relationship I've ever had was back in college. There was no way in hell I could do this. "I need to go, Michael. I'm sorry."

"No," he commanded, "I can hear how badly you want to say yes. Don't deprive yourself of this. You're painfully beautiful and I want you. I'm not afraid to admit that, so why are you?" There was a pause. "Don't push me aside. Or do," he corrected with renewed resolve, "I've had to rise to every challenge in my life. You'll just be my Everest."

"Is that what I am, Michael?" I had a feeling that I was misinterpreting his language, but the dark and staggering waves of emotion crashed against me. This was a powerful, powerful man. One that, as he put it, has fucked more women than any man should. Why wouldn't I just be another notch on his post?

"No, no. That's not what I mean, just-- Jane would you answer me? I won't ask again," he warned, "there isn't a bone in my body that begs." Except for the one between your legs.

"Find one," I said, "or at least one that lets you be humble. I'm going to leave early-- I can't do this with you. I can't even think right now." I tapped my phone and ended the call, pulling in a deep breath. There wasn't any plans to go out, but I felt like I needed to make some sort of excuse. What I felt, what I was feeling? It wasn't normal for me. It was intense and gripping and seven shades of frightening.

 

***

Having decided that I didn't want to be alone tonight, I'd invited Bethany and Sayla over for a nightcap. JB was laying at the foot of my bed when his left ear went up; his head followed soon after and then there was a knock.

"Jainyy!" Sayla was always coming up with nicknames. This one seemed to stick the most. "Open up before I find a little captain in me." I could tell from her voice that she wasn't the one who drove here. She had a problem that was an open secret, but with everything going on in here life I certainly wasn't one to judge.

"If you break my door down," I warned, just as me and JB sprang out from the bed.

Bethany gave that high-pitched chuckle I'd always known her for. "I've got her restrained, chickadee."

"You better," I called back, peering through the eye-hole in my door out of habit before unlocking the chain.

Sayla excitedly broke free from Bethany. She had a fifth of partially drank Morgan's spiced rum in her hand. With a big dumb smile on Sayla's face, she wrapped a single arm around the back of my neck and shoulder, shaking and squeezing me aggressively. "You're lookin' flustered," she announced, kissing the crown of my head quickly before breaking off and hugging JB, calling out his name with much of the same excitement. Good to see you too, Sayla.

Bethany shut the door behind her, giving me a quick 'hey' and her usual timid, but affectionate, hug.

I happily returned the hug, "Thanks for coming, Beth."

"Any time, you know that. Besides Sayla wouldn't stop bugging me after work anyway. Misery loves company and all that."

Sayla, still hugging my dog - who looked like he was trying to escape the human Alcatraz - turned her head to look back at us. "Ears," she said, "I have them, okay?"

We giggled at that, and spent the next hour gathered around my straight-from-the-pawnshop TV watching Burn Notice. During the commercials, Beth would sneak away to do any dishes that had collected in the sink, prompting Sayla to wax on and on about how drinking was for fun, and work was for work. We listened to this for quite some time while simultaneously competing for best tag-team dishwashers in North America. That was something that Sayla was extremely good at. Usually. Compartmentalizing her life, dividing her focus into neat segments. Most of the time I was envious of her talent in reporting - she never struggled to read her lines or come up with something on the fly.

We each took a swig of Sayla's passed around bottle, the sting and warmth coating both mouth and throat, settling down deep in my belly, making my blood turn thick with that familiar fire. Beth took another swig and she wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand, passing the liquor to Sayla. Beth gave a drunk, amused laugh. "What's going on with Frank?" She poised the question to Sayla innocently enough, but we all knew it was a sore subject.

Still, in all of her drunken energy, Sayla happily obliged in talking about the one thing she never did. The men that she screwed. "Ah, fuck you know, I'm thinking he's deep inside one of his skanks as we speak." The two were never good for each other, even from day one. Bar and club hook-ups were what she was good at. She tilted her chin upwards, a smirk on her burgundy lips, "but I'd rather be hanging with my girls anyway. Waste enough energy--" she punctuated her sentence with a hiccup, "chasing off his floozies anyway."

"You should dump him already. Good men are out there, you know," Beth said with a remarkably straight face. We all then shared a knowing look and shared a deep, connecting laugh. If good men existed, we were looking in all the wrong places.

JB huffed out air from his black and wet nose, looking between us. Looking, that was something I wasn't used to. I also wasn't used to hearing a rich and powerful man like Michael try and seduce me. I hated to admit it, the attraction that my body felt for him. Hated that it felt impossible to act on it because of my past.

"Jane?" Bethany flicked at her phone, her eyes looking at me. "You okay?"

I grabbed the bottle from Sayla as she ambled to her feet. "For sure, for sure," I repeated. Great, you're not going to the Oscars this year.

Sayla walked over to the bulky, black and old boom-box that was resting on the top of my modest bookshelf. She threw her head back over her shoulder, her long auburn flowing with her. Her next words were sing-song. "Liar, liar."

Beth rolled her eyes casually while Sayla fiddled with the stereo. "And my therapist tells me that I should open up more," Beth reflected.

That sparked something in me. "Have you ever had someone take over your therapist's clients before?" I narrowed my eyes, letting my head dip towards the left, loving the hell out of being mildly relaxed for once. "I mean, like, temporarily."

Beth chortled. "Well. No, why? You're not seeing uhm--" Beth looked towards the ceiling, snapping her fingers.

"Fields," I whispered playfully.

"Fields!" She bursted, locking eyes with me in false triumph, "man I'm good."

"I'm still seeing her," I started, watching and listening as Sayla aimlessly went through the stations. Does she need a hand or something? "Or I will be soon, I guess. This guy came in and took over all of her cases. He told me that she was going through a sabbatical."

"That's weird," Beth's brows rose, and her face tightened. "Is that what's got you acting all hush-hush?"

I felt my cheeks flush with red. "Well... no. It's got to do with that gig you were talking about."

Her eyes lit up at that, "Really? You went through with it?" Sayla settled on some alternative station, the rocking and catchy tunes of Shinedown cranking through the boom-box.

"I did. Turns out they were setting me up on a date."

Sayla turned so quick that she nearly stumbled on her own movements, balancing herself with her arms. She had a 'well that was close' face. "You went on a date. Jane. Our Jane? Lord tell me you got some action for the two of us."

I smiled genuinely, so much so that I feared I looked weird for unintentionally holding it for so long. "There was action." Sayla pumped her fist whilst Beth contrasted with an astonished gasp. JB just lazily rolled onto his side. "But not, you know... action. It was kind of a beautiful disaster."

Sayla rejoined our circle on the floor, brushing up real close to Bethany. "All the best ones are," Sayla shook her head sagely, "trust me on that."

"He was an asshole," I tilted my head slightly, remembering fleeting images of our time at the D'Agio. "But you know, not completely. It was almost... fun." I couldn't decide if I wanted to tell them the rest of the story or not, but with the rum sitting in my belly my lips probably won't stay sealed.

Bethany nodded. "So you knocked it out of the park?"

"Sort of. We ended up going back to his place," I said so casually as if he hadn't caught me in lying about who I was, and the angle in which the Mob had tried to work me. Sayla had a wicked grin of approval on her face.

"I thought you said you didn't get any," Beth pointed out.

"I didn't. I didn't e-exactly," I was starting to stumble over my words now, my mind racing back to the sight of Michael's deliciously sculpted body. "He's got this mansion in the Wester Woods. Gorgeous place, really," the elegant walls, floors and paintings filled my mind. "He gave me a tour of it and let me sleep like royalty in one of the guest rooms."

Sayla pushed at my shoulder, the chorus coming in from the boom-box. "He didn't make a pass at you? Give me this dude's name, Jainy."

"Well," I tipsily put up a finger, "the next morning I used his private bath house." That got a few whistles. "I think his butler hatched that scheme, cause he joined me and uhm, well I got a lot of very nice views, we'll say."

"If a guy came at me like that in a lavish bath, thing, I would have screwed him to next Sunday." Sayla was of course already trying to picture herself in that situation. There was a pang of heat in my chest, a foreign feeling. Was I... jealous?

Beth bit her lip lightly, "Sexy. Little bit creepy maybe. Just who was this mega-rich power mogul? Spill the beans."

It was embarrassing, I was sure they'd know who he was. He made headlines every other day it seemed. "Michael Smoak," I whispered through my fist, as though mentioning him might summon him behind me.

"No way," Sayla brought a hand to her chin. "That asshole wanted to get freaky with you?"

"Considering how erect he was--"

Bethany smiled, where as Sayla interrupted me with a fit of uncontrollable laughter. "I can't believe that playboy wants to break you in. You gotta make him work for it, please? For me? I can only imagine the blue balls I'd give that suited sex machine."

That pang returned, and a golf-ball sized need formed just behind my clit. Thinking about the steam, the water, the electricity when he approached me all bare and hard. "I don't think I could do that," I admitted, "let alone give myself to him like that."

Sayla managed to find her calm, much to my secret delight. "You don't need to. Why would you even want to? He thinks you're hot." The radio host segued us into another song, this one apparently by Red Sun Rising.

Bethany wagged her head, "Lighten up and have some fun, Jane. You haven't had any since that stick from college." She meant Simon. What she didn't know was that we never did anything outside of making out - and because all of Carter and my family was still so fresh, I kept myself intoxicated just to work up the nerve to do that. "We'll go out one of these nights," she suggested, a smirk already spreading on Sayla's face. "Find something sexy for you to wear."

"Somethin' to make his balls tighten up just looking at you," Sayla said, as if hatching some secret and nefarious scheme.

We had our share of laughs, and another hour and a half went by in the blink of an eye, leaving me wrapped tightly in my blanket, the darkness blotting out everything but my LED lights. The last thing on my mind was the beautiful, terrifying image of Michael at the dinner table we shared. Looking at me with ravenous eyes.

I still hadn't answered him.