Fan Fiction by VTW
|Todd sat in the darkened house silently. He throbbing of his hand was
almost a welcome relief. It meant some small part of him could still feel.
He was numb with shock. His father was alive and well.
How he hated him.
He wished he could kill him slowly and painfully. He'd make it last a week. He leaned his head back against the plush leather of his couch and tried to will the pain in his hand away.
He glanced down; he needed to treat it. He'd been sitting in his house for hours, in a trance-like state. The memories of his youth came flooding back like a tidal wave. He was powerless to stop them.
He took a long swallow of scotch. A half-empty bottle stood next to him on the coffee table. The alcohol burned a fiery trail all the way down to his belly. He was stone sober. It didn't have any effect on him, except to make the memories crystal clear in his head. Like a horror film in Technicolor, where everything seemed fifty feet tall and the noise was so loud you couldn't escape it.
So kill him Todd. You know you want to. You've fantasized about it a hundred times. We all have. Be a man for once, instead of a pathetic, weak-willed, pussy.
"Shut the fuck up," he whispered. "I don't wanna listen to you right now."
Too bad. There's nothing you can do to stop us. Just like there was nothing you could do to stop your old man all those years ago. Remember? We KNOW you do Todd. That's your problem, isn't it?
He bunched his jaw in helpless fury and hurled the glass tumbler across the room. It smashed violently against the gray marble fireplace. Pete grabbed the bottle and took another healthy swig. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, breathing harshly.
He spun around when he heard a soft knock at the front door.
It was Manning.
He was sure of it. He stalked to the door. He was gonna beat that motherfucker's ass into the ground. He yanked the door open with a feral growl.
Clarice Anderson stood on his porch wide-eyed and startled. "Thomas?" She bit her lip nervously. "Uh I'm sorry to intrude, but you left your keys at the diner. I thought you might be missing them." She stood a little uncertainly. Thomas didn't look like himself. He looked large and threatening. One long, muscled arm was resting on the frame of the door. The other one hung loose at his side. His face was expressionless. He eyes were shuttered and staring.
She silently handed the keys to him. He slowly extended his hand out to her.
"Oh my God!" She exclaimed softly. "Your hand! What happened to it?" She pulled his hand to her, and gently probed the area around it. "It looks like God, is it a burn?"
Pete shrugged. "It's nothing."
She looked up at him surprised. "It's not nothing, Thomas. Burns can be serious. Look at it. It's blistered! You'll get an infection if you don't get it treated immediately."
He raised one eyebrow. "I'm not goin' to any doctor." He had a half smile on his face that really wasn't a smile at all. More like a pulling up of the lips. It was disconcerting.
Clarice frowned at him. He was like a completely different person. It didn't matter. She was still drawn to him. She couldn't leave him. "Do you have a first-aid kit?"
"Yeah," he said indifferently.
"May I come in?" She asked with a touch of exasperation. "I'll treat it myself if you don't want to go to the hospital."
He stood there for a minute and said nothing. Then with a shrug, he opened the door wider. "Come in."
Clarice stepped over the threshold and into the house. Pete flicked on the lights and a soft glow was cast over the living room. Clarice smiled. "Wow, this is some place!"
And it was. Stark and modern, the decor was done in pale wood, Italian granite and glass. Really good art, in black and white, hung on the walls. Thick, emerald green plant's rested inside copper bowls. It was tasteful. A little cold maybe, but overall, it was beautiful.
Pete stood in the center of the room and said nothing. He was watching her silently. He'd have to be blind not to notice how lovely she was. Her lush black hair fell in a shining curtain all the way down her back. He wanted to run his fingers through it to see if it was as silky as it looked. He clenched his hand into a fist. Her long, long legs were encased in a pair of soft looking 501's. She had an incredible body.
She turned around. "I'll treat your hand now, if you tell me where you keep your first-aid kit."
"It's in the medicine cabinet," he said abruptly, as if coming to a decision. "Follow me." He walked past her, not waiting to see if she was behind him or not.
They entered the bathroom. Pete opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out the kit. He handed it to her wordlessly and stood waiting.
"Um it might be better if you sat down." Clarice opened the box and began rifling through it.
Without taking his eyes off of her, he slowly sat on the commode. The room seemed to shrink drastically.
Clarice knelt in front of him. "Give me your hand."
She was the second person to say that today. His body was like a coiled spring. He held his hand out and waited.
"Thanks," she said softly. She took a bottle of antiseptic and removed the cap. "This will sting a little."
He narrowed his eyes against the pain as she sprayed the medicine on the palm of his hand.
She looked up and smiled apologetically. "I know. It must sting like crazy." She blew gently on his hand to take away some of the hurt.
Pete felt as though he was kicked in the belly. Christ. Her soft breath on him was the sweetest agony he'd ever endured. He could smell her, she smelled like a thousand exotic flowers. He would walk through fire if it meant he could prolong this moment for eternity. He felt himself grow hard, and inwardly cursed his weakness.
Clarice began to lightly rub an anti-bacterial cream on him. She placed a soft square of gauze on his palm and taped it. "There. All done," she said with a sweet smile. "That wasn't so bad now, was it?" she teased.
"No," he whispered roughly. "It wasn't." He gazed at her intensely. His long hair framed his face like a mane. He looked wild and a little dangerous.
Clarice felt her lungs squeeze together as if all the oxygen had left the room in one sudden whoosh. The rough burr of his voice raced down her spine. The utter silence in the bathroom was deafening. "Well, I guess we're all done," she said breathlessly. Her heart was thrumming so loud, she was sure he'd hear it.
"Yeah, we're done." Pete rose to his feet. He extended his uninjured hand down to her. She placed her slim hand in his. He helped her to her feet.
Clarice felt a jolt of electricity travel all the way up her arm. His hand was big, warm, and slightly callused. Pleasantly so. She blushed hotly. "Thank you," she murmured.
He walked her to the front door. He opened it silently. "Thanks. Y'know, for my hand," he said quietly.
"You're welcome Thomas." She struggled for something to say. "Well I guess I'll see you later. At the diner, I mean. Goodnight." She turned and walked a couple of steps, then paused. She looked back over her shoulder. He was watching her every move. He leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed. His face unsmiling intense.
"Would you like to have dinner sometime?" She blurted out. "I know you're probably really busy. I It's just I really like to cook so maybe I thought " she trailed of lamely.
"Yes." Pete nervously ran his hands through his hair. "When?"
"How about tomorrow night?" She said, shocked at her boldness. "I live at 1697 Ocean View Drive. Apartment number ten. About seven? Is that okay?"
He nodded. "I'll be there. Goodnight Clarice."
She smiled. "Goodnight Thomas."
He closed the door and leaned against it, breathing as though he ran a marathon. "Fuck," he whispered angrily. What the hell was he doing, accepting her dinner invitation? He needed to locate that son of a bitch, Manning. Not waste his time having dinner with a woman who would be expecting way more then he could give. "Shit!" He yelled. He combed his fingers through his hair in frustration.
Manning was out there like a fucking snake, ready to strike. This was all on his shoulders. Todd was useless; Tom was a scared kid, and Rafael, God! Pete rolled his eyes. Rafael was a walking hormone, who tried to screw anything in a skirt. He sure as hell wouldn't be any help.
It was up to him to finish this. Even if it killed him, he'd bring Peter Manning to his knees, and pay him back in spades for every agony he put them through.
|To be continued|
Peace and Love,
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