There's a guy standing at the very front of the crowd, holding a sign that says 'Capitalists are cunts', taunting a security guard trying to snatch it from his hands. An American news crew is clustered a few yards away, yelling instructions at the guard who probably wouldn't pass the fitness test required for the job had he applied for it today.
The guy with the sign is standing on the temporary fencing now, wobbling a little as people around him hold his legs and yell at the guard to piss off. The rest of the crowd is pushing and shouting and nobody notices the guy in the Jurassic World baseball cap slip through the front doors of the hotel, holding a brown paper bag and a container of soda. A few moments later, the Capitalists are cunts guy has fallen head first over the railing, the media surges forward to capture his misfortune for the masses, and the man in the baseball cap is standing in an empty elevator waiting for the doors to close.
Three hours on, the fries and burger are gone, the soda container has stopped dripping condensation on the nightstand, and Owen Grady is watching the whole drama unfold on a local news channel while doing pushups in the tiny living area of the hotel studio. The report about the demonstration incident is followed by a related one about foreign investment liability in Costa Rica, and then yet another snappily edited selection of clips showing Claire shooting the Pteradon, Claire luring the T-Rex from her paddock, and Claire hugging her nephews.
Even temporarily without a Chief Executive, Masrani Global Corporation has no problems flexing its political influence. Owen returns to his exercise routine and lets his mind wander back to Claire, who he hasn't seen since the hangar four days ago.
As far as he's aware, Claire's staying in the same hotel, put up in one of the premium bungalows down at the water's edge. The rest of her family has already returned home, their arrival back in the states splashed all over the news, after a disgruntled In-Gen employee leaked the flight details to FOX News. TMZ had managed to dredge up the details of Karen and Scott's divorce, and someone else ran a story about Claire and Karen's parents' car accident fifteen years ago. Owen is still baffled about how he was still only known to the media as Hunky Park Employee Number One.
In an abstract way, he's aware his anonymity won't last. Between investigations and depositions and the media frenzy, his identity isn't going to be a secret for long. Barry's already been thrust in front of the press by their corporate puppet masters, making a statement about the velociraptors as soon as it was deemed appropriate. Owen's just relieved he's been pegged as too emotionally volatile to shove a suit on and feed to the wolves. Barry's not sure whether to be proud or pissed that his new designation is Hunky Park Employee Number Two. He's definitely proud of the twitter hashtag #HPE2, which trended worldwide for all of about fifteen minutes. He's pissed that he's become the face of this year's biggest clusterfuck by default.
The only people Owen knows - outside of the park and the Navy - all see him as the chubby kid who volunteered at the animal shelter. Four days of being splashed across the world's media, and still nobody's recognized Hunky Park Employee Number One as Owen Grady, the math nerd puppy whisperer, who sat in the back of class and drew superheroes all over his binder. He just hopes the when his estranged parents finally put the face to the name, they're being shown the buff velociraptor handler who helped saved a bunch of tourists, rather than a slave to corporate greed and excess. He doesn't want his parents thinking he turned out like them.
…
The ambient light from the television is comfortably familiar, and Claire glances up when a cacophony takes over from the reporter, just in time to see a man with a blurred out placard tumble head over heels onto concrete. The image switches to one of Barry and some Masrani spin doctors at a press conference. Barry looks like his tie is strangling him, and she can see the light sheen of sweat across his brow. Then there's a shot of herself holding the flare, and she changes the channel to infomercials.
We are determined to do everything in our power to contain the avian dinosaurs, and ensure the safety of the population nearby Isla Nublar. We have assembled a team of animal behavior and containment exeperts who have not been affected by the incident on the island, and are already in the process of recovering these assets.
Claire makes a face and deletes the words. Day four off the island, day four of never ending emails. Day four of restraining herself from googling her name. Day four of scattered thoughts and panic, gulit, and desperation to turn the clock back to the moment the Masrani board demanded the bigger, scarier, more dangerous attraction. Day four of imagining she had quit her job three years ago when the underlying feeling of dread had first begun.
Claire isn't without conscience, she's aware her ambition has been her downfall. She doesn't wish she had been born with something other than a Type-A personality, but she does wish she had had the foresight to realize this ambition with a company with slightly less public liability responsibility. Like a global fuel manufacturer, or big pharma. Maybe an investment bank. It's not like Masrani didn't have at least one of each under it's enormous umbrella.
She shuts her laptop, tosses it to the other end of the couch, and stalks to the door, not bothering to put on shoes or a clean pair of shorts. The sand under her feet is rough and there are shells digging hard into her heels. She walks to the edge of the dry sand , sits down hard, digs her toes into the edge of the tide mark, and cries.
…
Owen sometimes lets his mind drift to that moment after Claire saved him from the dimorphodon. Not the kiss - because he actually feels a bit weird about kissing her unexpectedly and without warning, in front of her nephews and a bunch of terrified strangers - but more the swell of admiration he felt before the kiss. Like his heart was going to expand to the size of his lungs, and he was going to keel over because his entire chest cavity is now heart and fuck you know a human needs to breathe but hey it's okay you just nearly got mauled to death by a flying dinosaur clone and there's this glorious woman standing in front of you with a gun and OF COURSE you're going to want to spend the rest of your life with her in that moment...
And then Owen glosses over the almost embarrassingly chaste kiss every time. He thinks about how he wants to press Claire into a wall and feel her warm and alive against his body. He thinks about his hands on her waist, gripping soft enough for her to move a tiny bit closer, but hard enough to keep her exactly where he wants her, which thanks to his masochism is just close enough to touch when both of them breathe in, but not close enough to feel each others' body heat and thudding heartbeats.
He wants to run his stubble up her neck and scratch it against her cheek. He wants to feel her breath against his neck, and run his tongue across her earlobe.
He wants to spend weeks dancing around what they could be, cook her dinners and rescue a dog and look after her nephews for the weekends when their parents decide to have secret dirty recently divorced weekends away together.
He wants to kiss her again for the first time up against the refrigerator when she's grabbing a beer, and the cold air's spilling out of the icebox. He wants to fuck her on the kitchen counter after months of teasing and touching and near kisses that turn into whimpers and long moments of lips pressed against pulse points.
He wants to go back to that moment where he said they should stick together, take her hand, and not let go until one of them needs to take a piss or something.
He wants to argue with her oh god he wants to argue with her. He wants to see rage and indignation in her eyes, and the glorious line of her raised eyebrows that make her look like she could eat him alive.
She can eat him alive. He's not pretending she can't. He knows as soon as he tries to assert any dominance over her, she'll probably push him away and leave him alone with a boner and steamy memories of near kisses and barely there body contact.
It's when he gets to the shoving away part that he drags himself back to reality, because really who needs to be fantasizing about opportunities that are probably best left forgotten.
…
About half way through day five, Claire starts to feel caged in, so she orders a long dark brown wig over the internet that sets her back three hundred dollars. It doesn't arrive until Day Seven, by which time the Masrani Global COO has already had a first class ticket booked for her back to San Diego. Claire calls the airline the moment the eticket arrives in her inbox and gets the charges reversed, and decides to ignore all communication devices for the remainder of the afternoon.
When she enters the hotel bar she's wearing the wig, and a typically touristy ensemble of Bermuda shorts, sleeveless button down, and a pair of obnoxious orange Crocs. She can see Owen sitting at the far end of the bar tucked away in a dimly lit corner, and considers walking out. Instead she scratches her head where the heat from her wig is becoming intolerable, and heads in his direction with a bit of extra force in her stride.
When she sits on the stool next to him and orders a jug of margarita, Owen turns to her and looks her up and down.
"Nice shorts."
"It's Central America, its hot."
"I saw the kids made it home safe."
"Yeah." She watches the barman jam ice into a blender and is silent for the thirty seconds it takes for the drink to mix.
"So what have you been up to?"
Claire can see him stiffen out of the corner of her eye, and takes a sip from her drink before answering. "Not much, you?"
"Not much."
They sit in silence for a few minutes, Claire staring at herself in the mirrored bar backsplash, Owen jiggling his foot hard enough for her to feel it through the bar's cheap laminate footrest.
Claire can feel the mood shift a moment before he asks the question.
"Do you want to... I don't know go for a walk or something?" His voice is a little hoarse, like he hasn't been using it much.
"I have an entire jug of margarita to drink."
"I thought your diet didn't allow tequila."
"I thought about it, and I thought fuck it."
He grins and looks down at what's left of his beer, sliding his finger down the condensation collected on the outside of the glass.
"You wanna share?" she asks, and he knocks back what's left in his glass in two gulps.
"I thought you were just going to torture me with irony."
"I thought you liked my shorts."
"They're fucking hideous. I mean the Crocs distract from them a bit but..." He trails off and tugs at the comfort fit at the back, where her shirt is tucked in bunching up along with the waistband ruching.
"I know, right? Where's a fannypack when you need one?"
They're quiet again for a while, a different bartender comes along and replaces Owen's empty with a margarita glass. Claire finishes hers and tops them both off.
"I'm sorry I left you behind at the airfield." She's staring into her drink and flicking specs of salt into the melting slush.
"It's okay I mean... Heat of the moment and all that and you have responsibilities that I'm just gonna get in the way-"
"None of that matters, we had a deal and I just left you and I'm sorry for that."
"Claire-"
"I don't want to be alone any more, and I know that's selfish, but I don't care."
Owen scratches the back of his neck and Claire can't help but stare at his toned forearms and strong, large hands. She imagines those hands running down her body, gripping her waist and lifting her up until she's sitting on the bar, legs on either side of him.
"...back the island and get our stuff, right."
"Huh?" She jolts out of her fantasy and makes a noise of agreement. "Do you have anwhere else? Like a apartment or something?"
"I've got a place in Portland that's rented out to a bunch of stoners."
She laughs and it's the first time she's genuinely smiled since that day. "You going to kick them out? Itching for the beautiful scenery and miserable weather of the pacific northwest?"
He turns the corners of his lips down in an exaggerated frown. "Nah, thought I might hang around here for a bit, protect the locals from random pteranodon attacks. I hear you're pretty rad at the close range flying dino stuff."
"That's what they say on CNN. FOX reckons it was a fluke." Her cheeks hurt from grinning and he reaches out to run a hand through the slightly tangled strands of the wig.
"You wanna go for a strictly platonic sunset walk on the beach?" Claire deflates a little at his words, but her heart speeds up a little when she meets his eyes. They're intense and hungry and she shivers despite the tropical heat. He wets his lips with his tongue, and she puts her glass down on the bar, not bothering to finish it.
"Let's go."