A/N: I originally had been resolved to not continue writing this, but the urge to continue popped up out of nowhere. So, here's the second installment. I'm not sure whether I ought to up the rating. What do you think? Please let me know!

A big thank you to everyone who's reading and the sweet people who reviewed. It's much appreciated!

CHAPTER TWO: ANYTHING BUT A SEA BREEZE

Jackson Rippner was pleasantly amused.

Ever since he had let himself out of prison, which was now roughly six months ago, things just seemed to get funnier and funnier. Of course, in the beginning he had been angry. No, he had been livid. So bloody furious that he had killed three useless security guards at the oh so competent penitentiary that they had shoved him in after the incident. That's what he was going to refer to her as. The incident. He hadn't killed all the guards at once, of course. Where was the fun in that kind of altercation?

But, as they had relocated him to solitary confinement, he had had a lot of time to think. Consequently, a lot of his anger had melted away. Really. It was rather funny what a little thinking time could do for one's perspective. There were no distractions. Just him, his thoughts, and four innocent cement walls. What those walls must have seen in their day. Certainly no one like him. Staring at them, he had thought. The more he thought, the more he had understood, and the more he understood, the funnier he found it.

And hell, it was rather funny.

All of it was so funny in fact, that he had actually laughed while escaping. That part wasn't too interesting, honestly – nothing he hadn't done before. It had almost been too easy, like they had been asking for it. They had been in the process of transporting him to another prison – where? He didn't know nor did he particularly care. He had only had to take out two guards in the process. Honestly. Two guards were all they had assigned to him. He really couldn't make that up. Just because he was of average build didn't mean he couldn't take a guy out.

Just because he had gotten in over his head concerning one particular red head and had let her put him on his knees, did not mean he had lost his touch.

He had a very particular skill set, after all. He wasn't going to let the unmentionable incident change anything. And it hadn't changed anything. What Lisa Reiser didn't know was that someone like Jackson bloody Rippner did not leave anything unfinished.

Really, what did she think? That just because he hadn't managed to blow up her stupid little hotel with Keefe in it, that that would be it? Did she really think he would've gone after her that stupid fucking day if he hadn't had a plan B?

Or a Plan C for that matter.

It had always been his idea to set up a gas explosion at the Keefe's residence. Nothing too personal. Nothing too involved or flashy. It would've been easy, in and out in a flash. No one would have to suspect anyone. Sure, there would be conspiracy theories, but that would've been it. In fact, he'd set it all up and everything, the weekend Keefe had gone back home to visit his precious little family. It was the Friday before the stupid Red Eye flight. But his client had wanted a bang, a splash, a big message. It wasn't like he could've said no.

It didn't matter now. None of it did. He had been angry at first, stuck in his stupid little jail cell. But then, his genius plan had set itself off, and just like that his mission was complete. He hadn't even had to lift a finger, not really. He'd been in solitary confinement for the second time in two months when the FBI, CIA - who the hell knows who else - came to question the hell out of him.

And it had been funny. It had been so fucking funny.

It only took him another month to get out of that boring shit hole, but it had been good for him. He had needed to get away, to think instead of acting rashly like he had. He should never have let the bitch goad him into running after her. He hadn't been able to help it, she was just so tempting. But really, he should have just disappeared. He should have killed her in that airplane bathroom. He should've gave her a kiss goodbye and a promise that he'd be back before he went on his little prison mental break.

Correction: before she had sent him to his little jail cell.

But really, it didn't matter now, not now that it was all done. Over and done with, he whispered to himself. He'd finished his job, so his client couldn't really complain. He'd pretty much covered up his tracks and thrown away his identity again, so the authorities weren't going to find him any time soon. He only had one loose end to take care of, and then he could be out of the shit hole that was Miami.

She hadn't changed overly much in all the time he had been gone, which was fitting. He had a scar on his throat from where she'd stabbed him and there was still some residual pain from being shot by her bloody father. But still. In the six months since he'd escaped prison and had taken to following her, he had healed considerably. He had lost his limp even before he had escaped prison. The limp she'd given him by stabbing him in the thigh with her heel.

It still surprised him, how she seemed so much like herself, like how he'd known her to be when he'd followed her the first time all those months ago. It was almost like he didn't exist in her world, like none of what they had gone through had even happened. And if he didn't know any better, if he hadn't had all this time to change his perspective, he would've gotten angry and gone right up to her where she so prettily sat to snap her little neck right then and there.

In the end, it was the little things she did that gave him comfort, stopped him from killing her outright and moving on like he should've been doing, like he'd done every other time he'd found himself in a situation like this. But she was different. She had more than just inconvenienced him. She had made known to him that she deserved whatever he gave to her. She had defied him and he wanted that. At least, he wanted that all for himself for a while before he grew bored. He inevitably always grew bored.

She was different, though. Different than what she used to be like. It was the little things that gave her away.

She slept with all of her lights on. Not the one in her kitchen window like she'd used to, not like before at all. Every single bloody light in her small little apartment was always on. She had adorably installed what she thought was a perfectly acceptable security system. That wouldn't protect her when push came to shove, when he would come for her. And maybe she knew it too, because she slept with a knife under her pillow, her field hockey stick in the corner next to her bed, and clutching a loaded gun while she slept.

It almost made him proud.

He knew all of this because he had installed cameras in her apartment out of sheer boredom, only several weeks back. Best decision he had made thus far, regarding her. It made staking out so much more entertaining.

She rarely slept. It made him feel like she was keeping him company, and he almost felt like he was there with her as he watched her waste away her time night after night. He liked to think he knew her intimately. He absolutely knew he had imprinted himself into her mind like she had wedged herself into his. Every time someone touched her unexpectedly, she would jump and have her hands fly to her neck where he'd choked the life out of her.

Oh, she put up a great show, he'd give her that. She was all fake smiles and giggles, something that made him want to take her to bed and tie her up to keep her there. She even went out once in a while with that silly little chit. What was her name? Cynthia. Cynthia, indeed. They would have drinks periodically at the hotel bar. And he would pay attention like he normally did. Much to his amusement, she never ordered a sea breeze ever again.

It was funny, really. She'd given up something for him. Because of him. It made him deliriously happy, watching her sip something she clearly didn't like the taste of, just to get the memory of him out of her head.

But he wasn't leaving, oh no, not without having her first. He was here to stay, at least for the time being, and poor little Leese would get what was coming to her – what she deserved, what she owed to him. And when he finally took what was his, he would smile. Because Jackson Rippner was many bad things, but he knew how to appreciate a good thing when it came his way.

Knocking back the rest of his scotch, he spared her fake smiling face one more glance before making his way home to the apartment that faced her kitchen window.

Home sweet home.

/

She didn't know what she would do these days if she wasn't subscribed to Netflix.

It was a really stupid thing to think, honestly. She'd never admit it out loud to anyone, of course, not to Cynthia, not to her father, no one. What would they think of her then? She had been pathetic before…the incident. Alwaysall by herself, a workaholic, only her father knowing why she was the way she was. Then she had morphed into a hero, even though she was only really a coward. She didn't want anyone else to know that, however. She didn't want them to change the way they looked at her. Not again.

She'd be damned if she went back to people thinking she was pathetic. Of course, she was still utterly alone and a workaholic. It was true she went out even less than she did after everything had happened nine months ago. But she rather liked having people think of her as something more than just the sad little hotel manager that probably worked because she was a prude and couldn't get a date.

The rumors were only half true, after all.

As it was, her dependency on distractions like Netflix was becoming alarming, but there was nothing to be done for it. She couldn't tell anyone what was going on because that would raise too many questions, too many memories, and a chance that they'd lock her away in a mental hospital. What would she do without her job? She'd go even crazier than she was now, that was for sure, and that was something she was trying to avoid dearly.

She couldn't sleep. Because she couldn't sleep, she just had way too much time to think. And because she didn't want to make herself sicker than she actually was, she had to not think about the things that had trapped themselves inside her head. It wouldn't do to dwell. She was a master at ignoring herself and her stupid thoughts, anyway.

That was why she needed the distractions.

Every time she closed her eyes, she could see cold pale blue stare right back at her. It was sickening. It actually made her sick to the point of emptying the contents of her stomach into the nearest receptacle every so often. Not that she'd tell that to anyone. Not that there was any way she would admit it if she ever had the opportunity.

When she shut the lights, she could practically feel him slam her up against the plane wall, choke the hell out of her, and make her make that damned call. She could feel him throw her down the stairs, glare at her, pull her back by her hair and –

She had to stop doing this to herself, honestly she did. She had plans to make herself stop one of these days. She was working on it, honestly, she was. She was going to whip her mind and herself into shape just like she'd done two and a half years ago after… after…

After her innocence had been ripped away from her.

Oddly, she didn't think about that as much anymore. Not as much as she used to, anyway. Of course, it was still there. Something like that wasn't just going to get up and disappear, not for as long as she lived. It was just that there were… well, other things that had taken the place of playing on repeat in her head, twenty four hours a day, seven days a week.

When she lay safely beneath her covers, feeling not very safe at all, there was one particular scene that repeated itself in her head and plagued her the most of all.

He had her trapped against the wall. He'd had her there. She had struggled and failed because despite all of her strategizing aside, he really was stronger. It didn't matter if this was her home, her territory, or that she had wounded him and slowed everything down. He was stronger, that's really what it came down to. Another man had taught her that lesson on the floor of a parking lot those very few brief years ago. And she had sworn to herself, had sworn to anything and everything out there that it would never happen again.

He had the oddest look on his face for the brief moment that he had managed to subdue her. She didn't like it. It was unpredictable. He was not glaring. Breathing heavy because of the pain, but not glaring. Surely all killers expressed their hatred before they killed. She deserved that at least, the predictability, being able to know. She deserved it goddamn it. And he was going to give it to her.

It was odd, really, because for a second there she felt that maybe he would've let it go if she hadn't provoked him. She had seen the acquiescence in his stunning cold blue eyes for the briefest of seconds beyond all the physical and mental pain she had caused him. He was breathing harshly, but he was calm. He was in control. And he didn't deserve that. If anyone deserved any semblance of control, it was her.

So, she took it from him.

"You're pathetic," she spat in his face.

And just like that, the second was over. She had so very easily snapped his hard won calm and unleashed the beast that he had very precariously caged within himself. He so easily pulled at her and threw her helplessly down the stairs, like she was as light as a feather. She felt vindicated for that second in free fall, even though she screamed. This she could be familiar with. It wasn't that she was afraid of dying just then. It was that he was going to make her pay for the provocation. Still, it wasn't a mistake. For all he had put her through in the last few hours, it wasn't even close to a mistake.

She couldn't really remember what occurred in the moments following, not clearly. She had hit her head really hard. She remembered dashing for the gun. She remembered hearing the sirens. She remembered his cocky certainty that he would get away, clutching his knife like he owned the place, like he owned her.

"We'll talk again," he gasped at her with his damaged voice.

"Don't move," she said just as easily.

He wasn't going to get away with this. Not any of this. She wasn't going to let him own her. Because, hell, she believed him. She believed in his certainty, believed that he would come back for her if she dropped her resolve and let him escape, if she couldn't keep him there long enough. And what would she do then? She was very close to losing, she knew she was. He'd kill her. He couldn't kill her now, there was no time for that. But she believed him when he said he would come back and kill her.

So, she shot him. What was she supposed to do? She shot him. She couldn't remember it clearly. It had happened so fast. He had been coming for her. She remembered his rage. She remembered him pulling her up by her hair so viciously, like all of this was her doing and he was only obliging her. How had he done it? He was shot, wounded, and bleeding, but still strong enough to lift her up by her hair like that. And then… and then he had been shot again.

But the clearest thing that had stayed with her, the most imprinted image in her memory that was there no matter how she attempted to distract herself, was of him laying there in her father's living room, so badly hurt and bleeding. It was the look on his face that gave her pause and made her want to cry. It wasn't anger or rage as it had been just moments before when he had tried to do her physical harm. When he'd possibly tried to kill her. All of that was gone now, as he lay bleeding.

No, it was something else entirely and she still couldn't understand it to this day.

It was betrayal. Hurt. Disappointment.

Disgust. As if she was the disgusting one.

In his eyes, she could see the question: How could you do this to me? And she wanted to sob at that because, well, how couldn't she? What was she supposed to do? Let him kill her? She couldn't side with him after what he had done, no matter how beautifully heartbroken he had looked just then. The question on his face, in his ridiculously gorgeous eyes was utterly and completely unwarranted. What was she supposed to do? She swore she could have felt his pain at that moment, could hear the sirens too.

And for one misguided second, she had almost felt guilty, almost felt bad for him, so expressive was the emotion on his face.

Her father had wanted to pull her out of the room, she could remember his hands grasping her and trying to get her away from the monster splayed so wonderfully on the floor where she had played scrabble as a kid during Christmas. He had looked so broken then, so dejected, like she'd broken the rules of some unspoken game they had been playing and that he'd counted on her. He had trusted her and she had just gone and ruined him.

He was disappointed.

And that was what scared her the most. Those feelings, his face, his eyes, and that image of him lying there… If he could make her lean towards him, even after all that he had done to her, truly she was in need of help. She hadn't wanted him to live through his injuries, not really, not when she actually thought about it later on. But he had persuaded her that it had all been her fault in that one second before the police had arrived and had carted him away.

It made her blood run cold. That was the reason she kept herself armed at all times. Not because she believed that he would come back, not really. Not even because she knew that he would kill her if he was ever given the chance. But because she needed to know and firmly believe that people who were as far gone as Jackson Rippner – if that even was his real name – could not be reasoned with, and couldn't be saved.

She needed to make sure that if she ever saw him again, as unlikely as that possibility was in reality, that she knew he was beyond dangerous. She needed to keep hold onto the thought that people like him, and her attacker all those years ago, wanted to break her down from the inside first, make her lose herself and her faith to live. And then, when she was good and begging for death, would they leave her in her misery, locked up in a mental hell that she couldn't get out of.

And who knew, maybe a person like Jackson Rippner would come back and finish the deed, just for one last laugh, making her believe that she deserved whatever he chose to do to her.

And that was not a risk that she was willing to take.

A/N: Drop a line! Let me know what you thought and whether you'd like to see more.