Chapter Nine: When Comets Collide

Trying to get a good night's sleep after drinking was worse than Claire remembered.

Throughout the night Claire kept waking up, sweating, shivering, then falling back asleep only to trip headfirst into confusing nightmares. She saw dinosaurs lurking in the corners of Owen's bedroom, poised for the kill, with their evil yellow eyes glowing in the darkness. She saw cold, white, sterile lab tables filled with notepads, numbers and test tubes. The tables seemed to stretch on forever and ever, and at the end of the table she saw Masrani, smoking a cigar, laughing at her. She felt the waterbed slosh beneath her, stirring up unpleasant sensations in her vulnerable stomach. She smelled the lingering alcohol on her own breath when she struggled for air, and it made her head spin. Under the simple cotton bed sheet, her body felt lonely and trapped. The nightmares went on and on, always disjointed, like a poorly written storybook. And after the dinosaurs' eyes closed, and the test tubes shattered, and the cigar smoke cleared, all she could see was a ghastly pink scar stretched across a heroic bare chest.

Stay calm. She thought, still drifting in and out of an uncomfortable sleep. Just breathe. Stay still. Just relax. You'll wake up and everything will be normal again.

But she knew it wouldn't be normal. She was in Owen Grady's bed. That was not normal.

At last, Claire opened her eyes fully and looked around the room. Just a hint of dawn peeked through the blinds on the window behind the bed, drawing stripes of weak sunlight across the walls. For a moment she thought it could be simple. She could get out of bed, pull herself together, wash her face, be calm, thank him for helping her last night, and kindly request to be taken back to her apartment.

Then her ears started ringing and she became brutally aware of her hangover.

She was not going anywhere for a while.

Meanwhile, Owen was unaware of Claire's night of turmoil. He'd slept like a baby through the night, knowing she was safe in his room, yet he woke bright and early without the need of an alarm. Just the urgency of having Claire under his roof was enough to awaken him on time.

He started the day in his usual routine. Stretch, wash face, brush teeth, start breakfast. He never expected Claire to wake up before noon after the night she'd had. For that reason, he didn't think it necessary to put on any clothes other than his boxers.

He paused when he heard her stirring in his room. The door was cracked open just enough so he could hear her. The waterbed made it more obvious when she was fidgeting. He wanted so badly to go in there and check on her properly, but he knew the likelihood of her freaking out was too high to risk.

He shook his head as he turned to put a bowl of oatmeal in the microwave. This woman was not his responsibility, but he felt so obligated to be a part of her life. He couldn't explain it. Claire was not his type at all. She couldn't make him happy. He certainly couldn't make her happy. They'd make each other crazy. They already tested the waters. It wasn't going to happen, no matter what circumstances brought them together.

Instead of feeling discouraged over this, Owen knew he should have felt relieved. He could stand by his morals and say he simply felt obligated to take care of someone who clearly could not take care of herself. He was just doing a good deed. He was living out the scout's honor. He was helping out a friend...er, coworker.

Owen finished his breakfast in record time, eager to move on to the next task at hand. He would have to acknowledge that Claire was already awake. He could clearly hear her. It wasn't some secret that she had spent the night. He wondered if she would be gracious and thank him for looking out for her, or if she would lose her shit like the last time and accuse him of setting her up.

There was no way to find out unless he spoke to her.

And that was intimidating.

Owen rolled his eyes. He could honestly say that working with raptors was easier than working with Claire Dearing.

A surge of determination filled his chest, and Owen bravely nudged his bedroom door just enough to peek inside.

Her face was peaceful, porcelain pale, and her red hair burned like flat fire against the white of the pillow. Her thin arms were locked together in an empty embrace, her hands clutching one another as if in prayer. Her eyes were shut, and her lips were set in a pout. All he wanted to do was kneel beside her and stroke her hair and whisper comforting nonsense to her while she lied there.

The little boy in him thought she looked like some sort of fairytale princess. It was actually kind of thrilling to have her in his bed. But seeing her there made his heart stop. The bed belonged to him, but as long as she occupied it, it was entirely off limits. It was as if stepping anywhere near her would set off the alarms and send electric currents out to shock him straight.

It was infuriating and delicious and frustrating and exciting.

She was completely helpless, and yet she had him in a bind. She could have been his prisoner, but he was really hers.

Owen had to smirk at the twisted nature of it all. Claire certainly was the queen of operations on this island. Even when she wasn't in control, she had complete control over him.

Resigned, Owen let go of the fantasy and went to lie back on the sofa. He counted ceiling tiles for a good ten minutes before he got a text message. Nerves rattled, he saw the name flash across the screen. Amanda Feller.

She wasn't his girlfriend. They'd just started dating a week ago. He didn't owe her any explanations. But he recalled the passive aggressive message she'd sent him at midnight last night.

Guess you really needed to help your friend out. I'll find a ride home. Call me tomorrow morning.

In the light of day, Owen felt even more like an idiot for leaving Amanda behind last night. It wasn't his intention to ruin the date. He had dropped everything for Claire, just as he knew deep down he always would. But he had hurt another woman in the process. He was a sucker.

What would Amanda's message say this morning? With dread in his gut, Owen reluctantly unlocked the screen.

I know you must be up by now. I told you to call me. Guess you don't really care about pursuing this relationship.

Owen read the text three times to fully comprehend it. What was there to pick apart? Was she being straight with him or playing games? Did she really think this was a "relationship" already? What relationship? He almost had to laugh. They'd gone on three dates. It wasn't a relationship. Was it? Why did women always get to decide when they were in a relationship? Wasn't communication important between couples? Where was the conversation to decide on this?

Owen felt his pulse increase as anxiety set in. How could he respond to her? Should he call her? What would he do if he did call her? Apologize? Come up with some bullshit excuse for why he left? He didn't really want to talk to her now. She would likely just rip him a new one anyway.

He sat there, contemplating what to do for about five more minutes before his phone actually rang. And he'd thought Rolling Stones would make such an un-stressful ringtone!

His stomach dropped, thinking it had to be Amanda.

It wasn't. It was Barry.

"Hallelujah!" Owen exalted.

"Uhhh... Good morning to you, too?" Barry was thoroughly confused.

"What's happening, my friend?"

"I was going to ask you that! Weren't we supposed to meet this morning for next week's workload?"

Owen slapped his forehead. "Oh, shit."

"Yeah," Barry laughed forgivingly. "I know it's Saturday but we agreed it's better to get it out of the way before Masrani comes in next Wednesday, yes?"

Glancing back at his bedroom door, Owen consciously quieted his voice. "Well, let me see, I can maybe come in around...Oh, I don't know, two o'clock?"

There was a long pause on the other end. "Did you take Amanda home last night?"

"Fuck no!" Owen shouted in defense, quickly remembering that Claire would hear him.

"Okay... so what are you up to?" Barry demanded.

"Nothing!" he hissed.

"But you did see her last night?"

Owen scratched his neck absently. "Yeah, but we didn't leave together."

"How come?"

"Uhh..."

Barry's voice took on a note of warning, "Owen..."

"I'll call you back later."

"Owen!"

Just as he hung up on Barry, the Rolling Stones echoed out from his phone again, seemingly louder than before.

Call from ... Amanda Feller.

Owen promptly shut off his phone and stuffed it under the sofa cushion.

He stood up and marched defiantly into his bedroom, momentarily oblivious to his minimal attire.

She was sitting up in the bed now. Her hair was messy, and her freckled face was flushed. She looked like a college girl who was experiencing her very first hangover after having sex with the guy who'd taken her home against her will.

Thank God that wasn't the scenario at hand.

Owen smiled helplessly at her. She didn't smile back.

"How are you feeling?" Even though he knew the answer.

She just glared at him.

"I have Gatorade in the fridge if you want. Or I can just get you a water bottle."

She didn't comment.

"Water it is." He rushed into the kitchen, threw open the fridge and grabbed the last water bottle he had on hand.

She was still in the same position when he returned.

"I see I have to face Cardboard Cutout Claire this morning," he joked stiffly as he untwisted the cap of the water bottle and handed it to her. "Are you hungry at all?"

She actually shook her head this time as she accepted the water bottle. She took two small sips and winced as she swallowed.

"Claire."

Her name came out sounding more gentle and loving than he'd intended. Surprisingly, it seemed to work some magic on her. She glanced up at him from under her lashes, her pale eyes softened and vulnerable.

"Thank you for last night," she blurted. Her voice was groggy and beautiful, and he kind of felt like slamming her against the mattress and kissing her like a savage.

He'd heard women use that line on him countless times, but it was always in reference to sex.

This was oddly more satisfying to hear. This did more for his ego. Claire was complimenting his heart, not his-

"I know it was hard for you," she said.

Owen glanced down self-consciously. "Uh..."

"I didn't mean to put you in such a strained position."

He wiped the wince from his face and stood up a bit straighter. "Well, I'm glad I was in the right place at the right time, Claire."

She looked away sheepishly, tapping the side of her water bottle. "I don't know if that's true, but I'm relieved that you were there."

He couldn't believe she was saying this to him. It had to be a dream.

"Yeah?" He took caution even as he sat down on the very edge of his own bed. The water mattress lifted Claire slightly, causing her red hair to ripple around her pretty face.

She just shrugged and looked down with a shy smile. "You think you're a bad boy, but I guess you're really not."

"I'm not a bad boy!" Owen exclaimed, palm slapping his heart. The sound of his hand against his bare chest drew her gaze upward.

It wasn't his imagination. She was blushing. Bigtime.

He had to bite back a grin. Maybe he was kind of bad.

"Didn't I just say you weren't? You just think you are," she reminded him.

"Once again, I have to correct you," Owen sighed. "I'm not a boy, I'm a man."

"Yeah, I got that." Claire's eyes drifted over his body, as clinical as her manners would allow.

Feeling somewhat empowered by her approving gaze, Owen took the liberty of stretching again, fully aware of which muscles were most effective to flex.

Claire's hand came up to meet her forehead.

"Still dizzy?" Owen asked cheekily.

"Really dizzy," Claire echoed, slowly reclining back into the pillow.

"No worries. You can chill here for a while."

From her point of view, Claire could only see Owen's charming smile, thick neck, and brawny shoulders. He was telling her to stay a while. She had no choice, but even if she had, she wouldn't have wanted to leave. And that made her a little angry at herself.

"Thanks, I guess."

"Here." He stood up at once, causing the water mattress to jostle her body. To her surprise he lifted the sheet from over her feet, picked up her limp legs and placed them down on a pillow before covering them back up. "It helps to elevate your feet."

Claire tried not to let it show on her face that her feet were still tingling from the place he had grasped them.

He smiled tightly then turned around to start clearing off surfaces of the stray clothes that were lying everywhere.

"Don't feel obligated to tidy up just because I'm here," Claire deadpanned from the bed.

"I figure now's as good a time as any. Sorry it's such a mess," said Owen sheepishly.

"You said it before. You're a bachelor, so you don't have to concern yourself with trivial things like housekeeping."

She couldn't help but giggle when he dropped a pile of T-shirts on the ground. He bent over to pick them up, and to her horror, displayed a glorious and unwarranted view of his intergluteal cleft. She gasped aloud, causing him to jump and hit his head on an open drawer.

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing!" Claire's insistence was rendered useless by her side-splitting laughter.

With T-shirts and sweatpants dangling from his arms and a fresh pink mark on his forehead, Owen did not look amused. With a shrug he let the clothes fall from his arms in defeat and approached the mirror like a dejected little boy.

"Ah, dammit," he whispered, inspecting his head.

"Come here," Claire invited, patting the mattress by her side.

He looked wary but followed her instructions nonetheless.

Her fingers lifted to follow the faint pink line across his forehead. Claire blamed whatever alcohol still lingered in her system for her behavior. After all, she should not have needed an excuse to touch his fair brown hair, or his sweltering skin, or any other part of him for that matter.

His eyes just stared at her - steadfast, smoldering, and earthy - like storm-shaken jungle leaves.

"It doesn't look bad at all," she said softly, never taking her eyes off his.

"It stings," he admitted, his low voice like humble thunder in the quiet room.

"That's what you get for being clumsy." She couldn't resist.

"You were the one who scared me." He smirked. "Why did you gasp, anyway?"

The unbidden image of his taut bottom came into her mind, and she stifled another giggle.

"You'll never know."

His eyes flickered for signs on her face, lips slightly pursed in what appeared to be confusion.

Suddenly uncomfortable with the closeness, Claire shifted on the bed. The heat of his body trapped her as he leaned slightly over her. She was at once overcome by a strange sensation, like tiny raptor claws tickling her belly from the inside. It wasn't as unpleasant as it should have been.

Before she realized what was happening, she felt her wrist encased by warm fingers, in a grip that was both patient and beautifully aggressive.

"I know why you gasped that time," he said, now so close she could feel his breath on her cheek.

Claire could think of nothing to say in response. This was not at all what she wanted, yet it was everything she wanted. She knew why she had gasped. She knew why she was not fighting him off right now. She even knew what was surely about to happen next. But she didn't stop it.

His lips collided with hers, like a comet with an unsuspecting earth. The result was catastrophic.

It was the strangest feeling to have his mouth on hers. His stubble was warm and rough against her chin, in contrast with his lips which were soft and giving. It wasn't right at all. It shouldn't have felt this way. It wasn't what she had imagined (if she had dared to even imagine it).

It was the first kiss she'd had in... God knows how long. Did they always feel like this? Like she was being tossed headfirst off a waterfall? Like her tongue was being massaged by fire? Like the Kentucky Derby was being held inside her ribcage?

This was ridiculous, inappropriate, and uncalled for...and yet she couldn't stop him.

He just kept kissing her, daring to elaborate the effort of his lips against hers. His hand swept her hair behind her ear and curled affectionately around her neck, lifting her head from the pillow ever so slightly. As if he needed her closer. As if he wanted to torment her more.

He kissed her like it was his duty to do so, as if his commanding naval officer were shouting orders at him from the bedside. He had claimed her so quickly, she wondered if she'd missed the sudden gunshot signaling him to do it. It was his imprisoning urgency that overwhelmed her into submission. This kiss was not just a gesture for him, it was a necessity. She didn't understand why.

Long before she wanted it to end, he finally pulled away. His face was flushed like a tropical flower, and his eyes were pale with fright. On his chest, that rugged scar gleamed like a badge of shame.

Claire could only think how telling her expression was in that moment. She was positively mortified by what they'd done. She was so far past blaming the alcohol - it was at least twelve hours expired at this point. No wonder this kiss had shaken her up so much. She was too sober for her own good now.

Owen, damn him, just stared at her, breathing like a beast awakened from hibernation.

She didn't want to hear what terrible, heartfelt, earnest words would come rushing out of his insultingly talented lips. So she pierced the insufferable silence with four terrible words of her own.

"Never do that again."