Fourteen months ago
He extends his hand. "Oh, the name's Jackson, by the way."
She shakes it, and the first thing that goes through his mind is mild surprise that her delicate hand is capable of such a firm grip.
"Lisa," she nods and smiles, completely oblivious.
"Pleased to meet you." He manages to force the words out through his mouth, though he's not sure how because his mind is still reeling from the feel of her palm against his own. He abruptly lets go and is relieved he can focus again because she's asking him a question.
"No. No, I haven't gone by Jack since I was ten years old. Last name's Rippner..."
She thinks about it, tries his name out on her lips. "Jack Rippner... Jack... the... Oh!" she exclaims, making the connection.
"There ya go," he chuckles, his slightly embarrassed smile completely unfeigned.
"That wasn't very nice of your parents."
"No," he agrees. "No, that's what I told them. Before I killed them."
She laughs nervously at his unexpected dark humor, but then he smiles and laughs with her and she's comfortable again, thinks he's teasing, not revealing some simmering hatred for the couple who conceived him.
"Well, if it's any comfort, my middle name is Henrietta."
He's pleasantly surprised that she would offer up her own embarrassment to make him feel a little better.
"But that's my grandma's name, though," she continues, and her eyes get this sad, far away look. "Was," she corrects herself.
"Well, here's to Henrietta," he raises his glass,"whose spirit is very much alive."
She smiles softly at him, perhaps touched at his small gesture, and raises her own glass to clink it against his.
He takes a sip, hoping the scotch will help calm the bats fluttering in his belly, while Lisa gulps down her Baybreeze, maybe hoping to accomplish the same thing. She sets her half-empty glass back down on the bar and dabs at the moisture on her lips.
"You know," he says, "when I saw our flight had been delayed, I was afraid I was in for a long night. And then Mr. Plaid-Jacket over there had his little temper-tantrum and it seemed all but certain. But then I meet a beautiful woman and get to talk to her for an hour, so all in all, not too bad an evening. Funny how things turn out, huh?"
Her eyes widen slightly. "Oh, um... Yeah." She looks down at the table, clearly embarrassed at his compliment. He finds her modesty utterly charming.
"Do you mind me saying that?"
Her head snaps up, perhaps concerned that she's offended him. "Oh, no! No, it's fine. I just... um... I don't handle compliments very well." She gives a little nervous laugh.
Jackson nods, musing over their shared awkward silence.
"You know I went to school with a kid named Matthew Bateman," she says offhandedly.
"Oh?" he asks, not sure where she's going with this.
She nods. "Matt...Bateman." She's trying to keep a straight face, but there's definitely some mischief hiding in the quirk of her lips.
He thinks about it for a second and then a snicker escapes and he erupts into helpless, genuine laughter. Well, what do you know? Miss Prim-and-Proper has a wicked sense of humor.
"Yeah!" Lisa snickers. "You can imagine all the possibilities teenage boys could come up with for a moniker like that."
"Oh, that's rough," he agrees.
"Mm hm. See, there's always someone who has it worse than you," she chides.
"That does, strangely enough, make me feel better. Next time I start feeling sorry for myself, I will try to remember: at least I wasn't saddled with a name that rhymes with 'masturbation.'"
Lisa dissolves into a fit of giggles, her full lips stretching in a broad, open smile, her perfect teeth glinting, her eyes clenched shut. He can't help but grin back, and earnestly, too, as he feels a tight coil loosen in his chest and he begins to relax. As her peals of laughter die down, she sighs contentedly, wipes her eyes, and takes another sip of her drink.
"But he was a sweet guy."
"I'm sure he was."
"Kids can be pretty cruel, though."
He chuckles at that; how well he knows that truth. "Absolutely. But I'm sure you never had to deal with any of that, am I right?"
Lisa shrugs. "Everyone gets picked on."
Jackson smirks. "What, the one time you had a zit?" It's supposed to be a compliment, but he comes off sounding a little condescending, which was completely unintentional.
She frowned and purses her lips. "No!"
"Then what?"
She sighs, exasperated. "I wore glasses and had braces until I was fourteen! You do the math."
"Yeaaaah, but then freshman year came and you got contacts and the braces came off, and suddenly senior guys are asking you out..."
Lisa smiles and rolls her eyes. "I was a band geek freshman year."
"And after that?"
She cringes, embarrassed. "There may have been some... leading of cheers."
Jackson grins knowingly. "Yeah, I thought so."
"But then," she continues, "they started a girl's field hockey team my junior year..."
"...And so you hung up your pleated skirt?"
She laughs. "Eventually. I wanted to concentrate on sports. Got a scholarship to play field hockey at UNC."
"Ah, so you were a Tar Heel, huh?" He knew that already, of course.
Her face flushes happily and Lisa thrusts her fist in the air. "Proud to wear that Carolina blue," she grins.
"You remember the fight-song?"
She snorts. "Do I remember the fight song? Of course!"
"How's it go?"
"You want me to sing it?"
"Sure."
"No way!"
"Come on. Just a little bit."
Lisa laughs. She takes in the challenge on his face, makes a little tsk-sound with her tongue, but finally relents with a sigh.
She clears her throat and begins to sing softly:
"I'm a Tar Heel born I'm a Tar Heel bred And when I die I'm a Tar Heel dead So it's rah rah, Car'lina-lina Rah rah, Car'lina-lina Rah rah, Car'lina-lina Rah! Rah! Rah!
And so on and so forth," she mumbles with a wave of her hand and a sheepish grin on her face.
Jackson leans back in his chair and takes her in.
"Wow," he says, examining her, as if he's holding back a secret.
She squints back at him, suspicious. "After all that, you better not say you went to Duke or I'm coming over this bar at you."
He chuckles at her school spirit and holds up his hands in supplication. "No throw-down necessary. I feel the same about Penn. I hate those Quakers," he growls. "And Rutgers! Always trying to steal our fucking cannon!" he laughs and she politely joins in.
"So you went to..."
"Princeton is my Alma-mater." He glances at her out of the corner of his eye, wondering if she's impressed. Her non-committal smile hints that she is, but she's trying not to show it.
"And what did you study at Princeton?" she inquires.
"Double major in Political Sciences and Psychology. Class of 1997. You?"
"Majored in Education, minored in English."
"Aaaand now you work for a hotel?"
"Yeah," she sighs. "It was hard to find a job when I graduated, so I moved back home. Couldn't find a job in Miami, either, and I certainly did not want to live at home forever, so..."
"Yeah, I didn't have much use for my major, either," he admits.
"Actually, Education majors are required to take child development courses and I've found that to be incredibly useful." "How so?"
"In my experience, cranky adults often revert to behaving like over-grown children. I've found it's best to handle them as such. The trick is not to come off as patronizing."
"Huh. I'll have to remember that. Do you miss North Carolina at all?"
"A bit. It's a beautiful state and people were really warm and friendly. I had a great four years there. Sometimes I wonder how different my life would be if I had stayed." She looks thoughtfully across the bar, her mind drifting momentarily. He wonders what sort of regrets she could possibly have at her age.
Lisa blinks, snapping out of it, and turns her attention back to him.
"I'm sorry," she laughs, embarrassed. "I've been going on and on about myself..."
"No, no. Not at all," he smiles warmly.
"You haven't said much about yourself. Are you married?"
Jackson lets out a surprised chuckle. He certainly wasn't expecting that. "Uhhh..." He flashes his left hand at her. His ring finger is bare, of course. "Why do you ask?"
"Not everyone wears a ring. And I've found that men who never talk about their home life are invariably married."
He frowns, appearing to mull this over; but really he's dragging his non-answer out to tease her.
"So... you're married?"
Does he detect a note of hopefulness in her voice?
He smiles. "No, I'm not."
She nods. "But you... you have a girlfriend?" she asks, like it's a forgone conclusion.
"No." He smiles, trying not to smirk.
"Well, I'm fairly sure you're not gay..."
He grins and laughs. "No."
"Oh." She bites her lip, trying not to smile like she's pleased to hear that bit of information. He can tell that she is, of course. She can't even look at him. It's completely adorable.
"So tell me, Jack, why is a guy like you single?" she asks suddenly.
He can feel his eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. He laughs, trying to cover it with a cough. "Um..."
She's looking up at him, all big eyes and sweet, infinitely kissable mouth and suddenly he has to fight the urge to take her hand and pull her into the nearest utility closet. Suddenly he's thinking maybe she's not as frigid as he thought she was. She must know what she's doing to him.
But then she blushes and looks mortified, her eyes looking down at the floor, at her half-empty glass, at the rows of bottles behind the bar, anywhere but at him.
"Jesus," she laughs halfheartedly. "I sound like my mother. I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry... and you obviously don't want to..." She waves her hand. "We'll just leave it a mystery."
"Thank you," he says, relieved, trying to ignore that there's slight disappointment lurking under the relief.
Lisa looks so ashamed, her teeth gnawing away at her bottom lip, her knee bouncing nervously.
He feels bad that he embarrassed her with his awkward response. Before he can even stop himself, he blurts: "I'm sometimes... uncomfortable around people."
Her knee stops bouncing and she looks at him, her wide eyes searching his face.
"I get busy with work," he explains, "flying around...not much of a home base...no real friends. I don't seem to have developed..." He's not sure why he's telling her this or why he can't stop talking.
"Yes?" He has her complete and undivided attention, now. It's kind of overwhelming.
"I have a job that takes up most of my time, but sometimes I think... that I haven't left room for, uh... anything else," he frowns.
Lisa's mouth parts and she exhales a soft, "Oh." She offers a soft smile, nods. "Well, I'm sorry to say I know what you mean."
Her hand moves to cover his, a sweet, sympathetic gesture on her part, and he practically lurches off the bar stool before their skin makes contact.
"Where are you going?" she asks, startled.
"Uh... to the bathroom," he stammers, tugging self-consciously on his jacket.
Lisa's face turns from surprise to worried. "Oh... Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..."
"No, no! It's fine, it's fine!" he waves his hands a little too frantically, completely demolishing his normally cool demeanor. "I just have to... Uh, I'll be right back."
He turns and tries to walk at a normal speed in the direction of the men's room, hoping that it doesn't appear as if he's fleeing.
In the privacy of the bathroom, under the fluorescent lights, Jackson throws cold water on his face. He slaps his palms against his cheeks, praying the sting of pain will snap him out of this... this... whatever this is.
Get it together, man. Get it together, he tells himself.
When he's finally collected himself enough that he trusts he won't go out there and make an ass of himself any more than he already has, he returns to the restaurant. Lisa's worried expression eases a little as he makes his way back to her.
"Sorry," he says, breezily. "I've had, like, three of these," he nods to his empty tumbler of scotch.
"Oh," Lisa replies, a little relieved.
Jackson clears his throat and sits back down. The air between them has altered. The easy conversation, the light flirtation and attraction has dissipated, much to his relief. Still, he feels a strange loss. Part of him wants it back, wants her looking at him like she was ten minutes ago, which makes him both nostalgic and angry. Angry at himself for feeling like this and angry at her for making him feel... Unprofessional. Out of control.
Lisa opens her mouth to say something, but she's interrupted when a woman's voice comes over the loud speaker.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we're cleared for the boarding of flight 1019, service to Miami, Florida."
A smattering of applause drifts from the gate seating-area and soon restaurant patrons around them are applauding as well. It's a jarring interruption, but Lisa, ever-polite, claps, too.
"Well, I guess that's us," she shrugs. Is that disappointment in her voice?
"Wonders never cease." He's going for cheerful, but somehow it comes out as just plain irritated. He tries to push aside the disappointment he's feeling.
"Yeah," she murmurs.
He sighs and reaches for his wallet. "Uh, let me get this."
"Oh, no. No, please," Lisa objects. She's the type of girl who can buy her own drinks - and always does because she doesn't care for strings attached - but he can tell it's a little halfhearted.
"I got it. I got it," he nods and smiles, cool and confident again. He slides a twenty and a ten across the bar and tells the guy to keep the change.
Lisa smiles. "Thanks," she says. She's fiercely independent, but she doesn't mind him buying her a drink.
"Welcome," he replies. Maybe she's hoping to use it as an excuse to buy him one when they land in Miami?
Yeah, that's not gonna happen.
"Well, so..." he begins. Lisa smiles. He can tell she wants to keep talking to him as much as he wants to keep talking to her. But then their goodbye is intruded upon by an obnoxious beeping which he, unfortunately, recognizes.
Jackson rolls his eyes and sighs. "Can you hang on? I'm sorry," he mutters.
"Mmhm," Lisa nods and looks away, awkwardly trying to give him some privacy.
"Hello?"
"Jackson, it's Richard. We just received confirmation that your flight is a go."
"Yeah," he replies.
"Has your asset arrived?" Richard always knows how to phrase things in such a bureaucratic way. 'Asset.' Yeah. More like 'mark.'
"Can you just hold on?"
He doesn't wait for Richard's response, just presses his palm to the mouthpiece of his cell phone to give them some privacy. He doesn't want to answer any questions like: Who were you talking to? Why did you make contact with your asset before the designated time? Et cetera...
He turns back to Lisa. "Umm... I gotta take this. I'm sorry."
Her disappointment is quickly masked with a reassuring smile. "That's okay.
"It was so nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you," she nods.
"You have a good flight."
"You too."
"Bye-bye."
"Bye," she says softly, as he brushes past her.
'I'm sorry,' he'd said. And damn it, he'd kind of meant it.
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Present Day
Lisa's long gone by the time he wakes up. A stiff neck and aching muscles causes him to groan as he stretches. He takes a look around the bathroom. Feeling rather foolish, he clambers out of the bathtub and stumbles into the bedroom. His laptop lays open on the bed. He flops down, swirls his finger over the mouse pad, and the screen blinks to life. He checks his camera angles and realizes that her things are gone and it's nearly noon.
There's a moment of blinding anger, as he starts scrambling around, gathering his things, anger at her, anger at himself, before he stops and reminds himself that he placed a tracker on her car. He takes a breath and sinks down on the bed. He pulls up the tracking system program on his laptop and in less than three clicks, he has her again, a blinking black dot traveling across a grid.
She's continuing west, from the look of it, on Highway 90. He follows the road further out to see what lies in that direction and sees that she's about twenty minutes outside of New Orleans and two hours ahead of him. He never thought Lisa was a Big Easy type of girl, but maybe he was wrong. It wouldn't be the first time. He just hopes she's planning on staying put.
Jackson takes his time packing up his things, carefully stowing the surveillance equipment in the trunk of the Audi before heading back in and taking a shower. He stands under the hot spray, letting it beat down on his sore neck and shoulders. He's exhausted from last night. Though he slept like the dead in the bathtub, it was not a restful sleep and it's wreaking havoc on him now.
Now, in the cold light of day, he's rather dismayed at his actions last night.
This is getting out of hand. You have to finish this.
Jackson sighs, grabs the bar of soap and lathers up.
But how? Pull her into some back alley? A bullet in the head or a knife in the heart seems like overkill, but if she's headed to New Orleans, it's ideal. A mugging gone wrong. Some hapless tourist wanders into a bad neighborhood and... He tries to picture it: she'll be walking along tonight, back to her hotel or to her car. A bullet to the back of the head would drop her quickly and quietly. No muss, no fuss. He's not a great shot, but he's confident he won't maim her. The idea of Lisa as a vegetable strikes him as sad and rather pathetic.
Jackson soaps his hands and spreads the white foam up his arms, across his chest and down his abs.
Or maybe... the soft squish and scrape of steel meeting flesh and bone, the look of surprise on her face as he eases her gently to the pavement, her blood flowing warm and wet over his fingers.
No, gloves. Of course, he'll have to wear gloves.
His soapy hand wanders down his abdomen, following the sparse line of hair down to his groin. Absentmindedly, he soaps up his pelvis and moves on to his member and further down, cleansing and slicking his flesh with a layer of bubbles, which almost tickles as it drips down his skin. He scrapes his blunt nails across his belly and his dick twitches pleasantly.
The idea of getting up close and personal when he does her should put a smile on his face. Revenge usually gets his blood pumping, gets him hard.
He thinks of Lisa, pictures her in that deep sapphire blue blouse she wore at the airport, how it made her pale skin gleam. He remembers the weight of her body in his arms the other night.
Jackson reaches down and strokes himself casually, the foamy lather from the moisturizing bar acting well enough as a lubricant. He pictures her on her knees in some back alley, tears streaking her mascara, turning her elfin nose red as she begs for her life. But it's not the thought of Lisa begging for her life that's caused his dick to stiffen and grow, it's the thought of her on her knees for a very different reason.
Jackson wraps his hand around his flushed member and strokes smoothly up and down, aided by the slippery soap. His eyes flutter shut as he recalls the image of Lisa beckoning him to her with a crook of her finger, a wicked smirk slanting her lips seductively, or how naughty that giggle of hers sounded in the darkness of her room; the glimpse of the smooth roundness of her thighs before he tugged her skirt down in that momentary pique of chivalry.
He looks down to see his cock hard is hard as a rock already and he hasn't even gotten to the best part.
Okay, he thinks. Enough of that. Don't even go there. That's completely against the rules. His thoughts turn to Nicki; his colleague and sometimes fuck-buddy - though he always calls her Nicole. 'Nicki Barrie' sounds too much like a porn-star's name and it certainly doesn't suit her professional tenacity. The woman is a fucking pit bull. But then again, she isa real tiger in the sack.
Jackson pictures her blonde head bobbing over him, buried deep in her throat as she moans theatrically around him. He thinks about the time she dragged him into a maintenance closet and fucked him five minutes before a meeting with a client, and how to pay her back, he'd fingered her under the table at a dinner meeting with their boss, making her squirm and sweat in her seat.
He recalls the way her tits bounce when she rides him and his hand moves a little quicker on his dick.
But soon, it's not a pair of D's he's thinking of, it's two perky B-cups. And then it's not a bottle blonde head bobbing in front of his hips, it auburn curls.
He pulls back his hips and her mouth slides off him. She's not on her knees in an alley begging for her life, now. She's on her knees in the shower, her skin flecked with drops of water, her mane of auburn hair twisted up in one of those clippy-things. Her little pink tongue darts out to lick those plush lips. He drags the clip from her hair and tilts her face up to look at him. She's all big hazel eyes and a pretty smile. His hands sink into those silky curls as he gently brings her face back to his groin. She nuzzles him sweetly before taking him in her mouth again, soft little moans and sighs issuing from her throat.
"Fuuuck," he groans. "Leese..."
Fuck. Stop it. His jaw clenches and he shakes his head, trying to shake the image of her from it.
Right. Back to Nicole.
He thinks back to the time he watched her put a bullet in a target, then pulled up her skirt and pretty much ordered him to fuck her on the floor of a grimy storage unit. He'd ruined one of his favorite Hugo Boss suits placating her, not that he'd complained. He has quite a fine mental roster of jerk-off material, thanks to that woman and several others: his college girlfriend, various escorts and one night stands whose names he's long since forgotten - if he ever knew them to begin with. But the minute he starts getting into the personal porno playing in his head, Lisa Reisert again makes her fucking presence known.
He stops his frantic tugging. His left hand slaps against the tile of the shower in aggravation. He takes a deep breath. Okay, let's try this again.
Nicole.
Nicole Nicole Nicole.
He chants her name in his head like it will summon her. But it doesn't.
Instead, his brain drags up the tiny bathroom on the red eye flight, the feel of Lisa's scar against the pad of his thumb, the baby-soft skin at the top of her breast, how her nipples had viably hardened at his touch.
From fear. Not from arousal, he reminds himself.
No matter. How easy it would have been to slip his hand in a little further; under the thin material of her shirt, under the fabric of her bra, to feel the heat of her skin and the pebbled nub of her nipple against his palm.
"Fuck," Jackson mutters, his hand slipping and sliding up and down his turgid flesh.
Except this time, when he catches her in the lie, he doesn't wrap his hands around her throat. Instead, he ducks his head and his tongue traces the pink flesh of her scar, suckling at it.
"Tell me who did it," he whispers against the curve of her neck, inhaling her perfume. "I'll put him through a fucking wood chipper."
"I don't know." She lets out a sound like a sob and shakes her head. "I don't know..."
His hands wrap around her waist and he sets her up on the tiny sink, pushing his hips between her knees.
"It's been a long time, hasn't it, Leese? A long time since anyone's touched you..."
With his left hand, he cups her face so she can't look away, fingers pressing into her jaw. His right hand moves up her knee smoothly, shoving her skirt up with it. She's so terrified, she's frozen. Doesn't even fight him.
He brings his face close to hers; so close that when he speaks, his lips brush against hers.
"You miss it, don't you?" he croons. "The feel of someone else's hands on you? Caressing your skin, touching all the right places."
His fingers graze the sodden material of her underwear. He sucks in a breath of surprise, then chuckles to himself. "Well, I guess there's something to be said for abstinence, huh? I mean, at this point, it's almost like being a virgin again. And virgins, well..."
He slowly swipes his tongue over the pulse that flutters in her throat, before returning his lips to her ear.
"...They get wet soooo easily."
Through her underwear, he flicks his thumbnail against her clit. Lisa gasps and jerks; and when he slides her panties down her legs - in this fantasy she's not wearing pantyhose - she whimpers, shuddering under his hands.
Jackson leans back and pulls her skirt up around her waist, exposing her to him. She's completely shaved and smooth as a peach. He's got no idea if that's an accurate estimation of Lisa's landscaping, but really, at this point he doesn't give a shit.
He brushes the back of his index finger against her plump nether-lips, drawing a moan from her.
"I bet I could make you purr like a kitten," he murmurs and nibbles on her ear lobe. "Why don't we find out, hmm?"
Lisa's thighs are wet and sticky with her arousal and he gets down on one knee to lick her clean before unzipping his fly and taking out his cock. He eases his fingers into her, rubbing her clit, pumping and pumping, coaxing little whimpers from the back of her throat. He gathers as much of her lubricant as he can before withdrawing his fingers and slicking his cock with her juices.
Jackson slows the strokes on his shaft to a more leisurely speed. If he's gonna go here, just this once, he wants it to last.
She's eying his dick like she's a little scared, her teeth pressed tightly into her bottom lip.
"Touch it," he commands.
Her eyes dart up to his, surprised, then back down to his erection.
"Go on," he whispers. "Feel how hard I am for you."
Her delicate fingertips hesitate, then skitter down the length of him, and then are gone. He takes himself in hand again and shifts his hips forward. The head of his cock nuzzles against the sensitive skin of her nether-lips, then slips between. He presses her thighs wide open, teases her hard little clit with his glans. It makes her gasp and clutch at his shirt.
"Please," she whispers.
Please stop? Please don't stop? Doesn't matter. He doesn't care. His hips slam forward.
And then he's inside her.
You can't watch a woman in her home for eight weeks and not see something. He knows what Lisa sounds like when she gets herself off: soft gasps and a mousy little squeak. It's kinda cute and sexy and hearing it made his dick twitch pleasantly in his trousers. But it's not like that in his head. She whimpers his name and wails like a banshee for him. It only takes another minute of furious tugging on his dick before his balls tighten and he comes hard, spurting his seed against the tiled wall of the shower.
"Fuuuck," he groans and his forehead thunks against the tiles to rest for a moment as he tries to catch his breath.
He's never let himself go that far, fantasizing about her. That way lies madness, there be dragons, etc... But he can't deny that he just had the most satisfying orgasm he's had in a long, long time.
Jackson rinses off, throws some water on the shower wall, washing away the remaining traces of his shameful little indiscretion.
He towels off and steps out of the shower. He moves back into the bedroom, and though he's suddenly exhausted, he fights the urge to lay down and sleep.
This is getting out of hand. You have to finish this.
Jackson throws on some shorts, a t-shirt, and his sneakers. He needs to run. Clear his head. On a good day, when he runs, the voices in his head get quieter, until it's just him, his breath, and his feet pounding on the pavement. He sets out from the b&b and heads toward the highway, toward the beach. He gets a rhythm down pretty quickly, but he has no luck quieting his thoughts.
If he goes to New Orleans, he knows he'll confront her. Which was the whole point of this. Confront her. Kill her. Or at least make her suffer like he did.
Now he doesn't know what's going to happen. He feels fractured, like he's being pulled in ten different directions, uncertain of which way to go. Uncertainty is something he is not comfortable with, and yet for the past few days it's become a constant.
Uncertainty.
And Lisa.
The fact is...
The mere proximity of her unnerves him. This sick attraction he feels for her... Because, really, at this point he can't deny she gets him hot - not after taking matters into his own hands, so to speak. This sick attraction would make him soft. And he can't have that. No.
The irony of his situation is not lost on him.
Lisa is not an ordinary woman. Not really. When he started surveilling her, he initially didn't notice the attributes that set her apart. She was beautiful, of course. Intelligent. But she wasn't the most beautiful or the most intelligent asset he'd used. She was a tool, nothing more, to be used in the machinations of men greater than he. So there was little that should have interested him, other than the purpose that she was meant to serve.
Yet Lisa refused to be a tool.
She was a survivor of tragedy, touched by evil. And while others had faced worse tragedy, worse evil, Lisa could somehow walk through fire and come out stronger on the other side with grace and fortitude. And if she had been anyone else with no need to ever cross his path, he probably wouldn't have noticed her.
She went about her life, did very little to attract attention, and yet he couldn't stop watching her, still can't stop watching her. He tells himself it's the job, but that's not entirely true.
But now it's too late.
She's in this game - his game - and worst of all, she's good at playing, even if she doesn't want to.
He feels as though he's come to a crossroads.
After so long, with a single, clear goal in mind, one boring girl crosses his path, and suddenly another desire awakens in his mind.
One you cannot entertain, he tells himself.
He will not.
So. Fish or cut bait, Richard would say.
As he jogs up the steps of the inn, up to his room, he strips for another quick shower.
New Orleans isn't that far away.
He'll keep fishing.
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