Author’s notes at the end.
 
 

With nothing to do

You’d waste away

Obscured in exile

They’ve witnessed the times

You’ve gone astray

Who’s fault? Now

You're thinking
 
 

I remember this game we used to play in drama class at school. A bunchof people sitting around in absolute silence as two people in the middlefought it out. Hunter/Hunted it was called. The people in the middle wouldbe blindfolded, one the Hunter, one the Hunted. The complete lack of visionmeant that they had to rely on their other senses, namely hearing and touch.When one of the players would get too close to the edge, the person sittingnearest to them would make high pitched beeping noises, thus giving awayone of the players location to the other. I always won.

"Stop Jarod." I yell. Don’t stop Jarod, I pray.

"Bite me Parker!" he yells back. I have before, on his neck.

"Shoot!" urges Lyle. Jarod’s running and I’m half running after him.A sort of jog and stumble combination. Keeping up appearances. But he’sgetting further away and I have a clear shot. Worst of all, everybody knowsit. If Daddy knew I held back...my ass would be grass. A clear shot andJarod walking a free man. The seconds are ticking by, and I’ve got momentsto make a decision. I take a deep breath. Two. He may not forgive me forthis, but the way I see it, I have no other choice.

      I shoot. Hunter/Hunted. I win.
 
 

There’s nothing to prove

A message from the crowd to the shore baby

And it feels now, just like

    Heaven’s coming down
 
 

"You shot me." His voice is accusatory. I look up the long corridor,Lyle watches me from the other end. I turn away, pressing my cell closeto my face.

"Now is not the time." I hiss into the phone. Jarod snorts in disbelief.

"You shot me in the goddamn arm!" he yells into the phone. I wince,pulling the offending object away from my ear. Lyle starts to walk towardsme, a predatory gleam in his eyes.

"Call me later, I have to go." I whisper. I end the call, shoving thephone into my jacket and trying to make a quick get away.

"I didn’t realise your shot was that bad. Perhaps you should get morepractise in at the firing range." Lyle drawls behind me. I turn, in thisdarkened corridor, sub-level five, to face the man I despise. My brother,damn him.

"You know damn well I’m the best shot around. You knocked me." I growl,and it’s true. I was aiming for Jarod’s right arm, I got his left. Lylestudies me for a few moments, measuring the worth of my words. He knowsI’m right.

"I won’t be in your way next time." He murmurs softly. I have a briefmoment of panic. Does he suspect? What does he know?

      As usual, the Rush hits me alongsidethese fears. I started smoking because I knew Daddy would disapprove, Iloved the thrill of knowing he could find out at any time. The same Rushapplies to Jarod, but tenfold. Lyle doesn’t know anything. He just likesto spook me. I click down the linoleum on dangerous stilettos, slinkinginto the elevator. It amuses me to hear Bolero playing tinnily, I don’tknow why. It’s late, I’m tired. I only just got back from New York a fewhours ago, what with the near miss with Jarod.

      My cell rings, echoing in the confinedspace. I hesitate to answer. I know its Jarod. I let it ring, the doorsopen, and I step out into the darkened foyer, creeping out to my car. Itcontinues to ring all through the drive home, and I switch it to vibrate,feeling it buzz against my chest, even as I mount the steps to the porch.I grab the phone out of my jacket before opening the door, checking thecaller ID.

      That bastard. I go inside.

"Did you charter a plane or steal one?" Jarod drops the cordless, myphone, and looks at me with a guilty expression.

"A friend of mine was headed out here." He murmurs, rising from my sofagingerly. He cradles his left arm carefully, wrapped in a rough bandage.Blood seeps through. I sigh.

I don’t need this. And I won’t endure it for much longer. He approachescarefully as I shed my jacket, watching in fascination as I complete mynightly ritual. Keys on the end table, toe off my shoes, head for the cupboard.A few mouthfuls of vodka from the bottle and I’m feeling better.

"You shot me." He sulks. "Why did you shoot me?" I pass him the bottle,and he takes a swig, gasping as it burns.

"I had a clear shot." I inform him. He casts me a dirty look. I go tothe end table against the wall, checking my messages. Nothing new. Howdepressing. What happened to the days when everybody wanted to be my friend?

      Jarod stands hesitantly as I move about,straightening the cushions he’s messed and restoring dignity to my slightlycrumpled living room. I can’t help but wonder if he’s been going throughmy stuff. He seems to be on the verge of grasping that I’m mad, but hasn’tquite made it there yet. I knock back some more vodka. Nothing like gettingdrunk to ease your troubles.

"You shouldn’t drink so much." Jarod ventures carefully. I push hisdiscarded shoes under the coffee table.

"You shouldn’t hang around my house so much." I snap. Harsh, I know,but I can’t help it. Jarod fights a losing battle with himself.

"Can I stay tonight?" It pains him to ask that. Damn him anyway. I lookpointedly at the couch. Jarod winces, and cradles his injured arm a littlemore protectively.

"With you?" he adds quickly. I shrug. Can’t feel the burn of the vodkathis time. Just a comfortable lightness. Not drunk, just fuzzy. Just peachy.

      I walk away, upstairs, shedding clothesas I go. Jarod follows, obediently picking up what I drop. Clad only inpanties, I stop at my wardrobe. Jarod pretends not to look at the bed.I remember him, the first Morning After, four months ago now, sad and cryingin my kitchen before he left.

"I never understood why we need forgiveness if we can simply forget."He’d told me. Collectively, we cry too much and we can’t forget. Let aloneforgive. So much history puts walls between us.

      I grow strong without him. I know thatscares him.

"Red or blue?" I ask Jarod, showing him two different dresses. The hemlineshave lost an inch for every decade I’ve lived. Another ten years and I’llbe wearing them as t-shirts.

"Blue." Jarod murmurs. I pull the red on. He smiles furtively, placesmy discarded clothes on the bed.

"How’s Jess?" I ask, slipping some sandals on my feet. August has broughtan unexpected heat wave.

"I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen her since that day in San Francisco."I nod, absorbing this information. Loverboy hasn’t come to see me sinceI discovered his little indiscretion. Two months now. How time flies. Ineed more alcohol.

      I lead the way downstairs, Jarod follows,his intentions wavering in light of my coolness towards him. Unsure ofmy mood and my manner, he cannot interpret my behaviour into easily understandableJarod Language. Eg, in Jarod Language, Jarlan for short, everything I sayand do means something completely different to him. If I were to say "Jarod,you disgust me", this is obviously an invitation to spend all night drivingacross the country in time to confront me with my own past. I smile atthe memory.

"Should I be encouraged by that smile?" he asks tentatively. I pauseat the fridge door, and study him, really study him. He looks tired, andmore than a little hurt, emotionally and physically. I won’t answer hisquestion though.

"How bad is it, anyway?" I gather some bottles of fruit juices, a plasticjug and a cocktail stirrer. Jarod looks on with interest.

"It really hurt!" He complains, propping himself up against the bench.I pour a good measure of orange juice into the plastic jug, then an almostequal amount of grapefruit juice. A little watermelon and pear I’d juicedearlier and a squirt of lemon. I learnt long ago to keep the ingredientsfor a good drink on hand. In summer, I juice certain fruits about oncea week.

"You didn’t answer my question." Jarod has the decency to look guiltyat least. I tip the remaining half a bottle of vodka in, snap the lid onthe plastic jug and shake it.

"It, ah, grazed the pectoral muscles." He mumbles. I slam the jug down.

"Excuse me? *Grazed*? You’re having a cry about a *grazed* muscle?"he casts his eyes down, fiddling with the bandage on his arm. I’m losingmy anger to amusement. Damn.

"It bled..a bit.." he offers. I shake my head, pouring a good measureof dry ginger ale into the jug. I swirl it round a bit and swish it withthe cocktail stirrer. I pass the jug to Jarod and gather two glasses andlead the way outside. Two chairs sit on my front porch. Horror of all horrors,I’ve been feeling domestic lately. The house is unusually clean. I clunkthe glasses together in one arm and flop down into a chair. I feel almost...cheerful. It is warm and I’m tipsy and my lover is ungracefully loweringhimself into the chair beside me. I may even choose to get laid tonight.If he’s lucky.

"Pour me." I order, holding out one of the glasses. Jarod complies,taking the glass I pass him and pouring one for himself. He sips cautiously,then smiles.

"It’s good!" he exclaims, taking another deep swallow. I roll my eyes,hanging one leg over the arm of the chair. The skirt of my dress ridesup. Fuck modesty.

"Of course its good, I made it." I say and he laughs at this. To myown surprise I’m feeling relaxed. Jarod finishes off his glass and poursanother. I haven’t even started mine yet. His hand somehow finds its wayto my knee and he strokes absently. I could have sworn I was angry notthat long ago. He begins to hum softly. Beethoven’s Ninth, if I’m not mistaken.I sip at my drink.

"I didn’t know you liked cocktails..." Jarod comments. I flick my hairwith a shake of my head. He watches me and squeezes my knee.

"Normally I can’t be bothered mixing them, but I do like them." I reply.There is a moment of silence.

"Miss Parker?" Jarod begins, his face wry.

"Mmm?" Cicadas call out there somewhere. I hate that noise.

"Are we having a normal conversation?" he asks. I chuckle, tipping myhead back.

"I hope not. That might make us a normal couple." He laughs at thistoo, then his face grows serious.

"Are we? A couple, I mean?" his voice is almost anxious, and I sigh.

"Perhaps Jarod, in another time, another life." I answer. I must beclose to drunk, I’m getting philosophical. He stays quiet, topping up ourglasses. I take a deep swig, almost finishing the glass in a few big swallows.Getting there, getting there.

      Jarod sighs, stroking my thigh. I’llmiss this. I remember my days in Corporate. A man named Peter decided Iwas to be his trophy wife. He cajoled, he begged, he threatened and hetried to blackmail and bribe to get me into that position. Then one dayhe made the mistake of hitting me. A backhander across the face. I wastoo shocked to react, and he walked out before I could shoot his ballsoff. Daddy found out. I never saw Peter again. Neither did anyone else.So far as I know, Peter’s bones are still swimming with the fishes in thecove.

      Daddy told me, after that, to alwaysdefine a relationship’s boundaries before it gets out of control. And whatmade me angry was that he automatically assumed that I had invited thatcreep Peter’s attention. I threw off his advice as pointless and proceededto flaunt several affairs in his face.

      Upon reflection, he is right. We haveno boundaries. Jarod and I are out of control. He got jealous about Hankbut I didn’t realise we were supposed to be monogamous. I got jealous aboutJess but he didn’t understand that revenge doesn’t contribute to a healthyrelationship. He’s upset because he didn’t comprehend that I’d shoot himif I had a chance, and I’m scared because he wants me to tell him we couldbe in a relationship at all.

      Jarod picks up my hand and raises itto his face, kisses it gently. I want to tell him not to do that, it scaresme. But I stay silent instead and he drags his thumb across my chippedfingernails. He sets his glass down on the floor and does the same to mine.I let him kiss my wrist while his other hand slides further up my thigh.I can do this. I know I can. He bites at my wrist then releases it, reachingover to fondle my breast. He scrapes his chair closer to mine. He pinchesat my nipple and I moan a little. I can feel myself getting wet, and Jaroddraws little circles on the inside of my thigh.

      Jarod takes my hand, kisses my cheek.He stands up and tugs me along with him. He lead me inside and pushes meup the stairs in front of him, taking the opportunity to grab my ass. Mystep falters as we reach the bedroom. I stare at the bed while the restof the room spins. I’m drunk. Those last gulps have hit me hard. Jarodwraps his arms around me from behind, caressing my hips before slidingthe straps of my dress from my shoulders. The light material drifts tothe floor and Jarod kisses my neck, pushing my panties down, and I stepout of them. I take a deep, shuddering breath, trapped between arousal,despair and nausea.

"Jarod-" I start to say. I am shocked at the thin, reedy tone of myvoice.

"Shh." He whispers in my ear, walking me to the bed. He pulls back thecovers and lays me down, sliding in next to me. My breath is short andsharp, my hands fidgeting against the sheets. I can’t do this. There areboundaries, there have to be boundaries! I won’t do this drunk, not whilethe world spins and I’m a little bit scared. Jarod kisses my cheek andhis hands close around my waist, dragging me close to him. It’s too much!I will struggle, I’ll push him away, I won’t do this...there *must* be boundaries.

Jarod captures my hands, beating against his chest, and pulls me closeonce more. What will he do, force me? I cry out, but he pins me to himwith one arm. He raises his hand and I remember Peter, so angry as he slappedme. I flinch. Jarod sighs, and wipes away the tears I hadn’t realised Iwas shedding.

"Go to sleep Miss Parker. Perhaps one day we will have sex in a bed,but not tonight. You’re too drunk." He whispers quietly, bitterly. Sexin a bed. That would be nice someday. We’ve never quite made it, the closestwas a few month back where we ended up on the floor next to the bed. Ilay still, but tense, in his arms. He runs his hand soothingly down myhair and I relax slowly, realising my mistake.

      I was wrong, so wrong, and I sniffleinto his chest. He wouldn’t, of course he wouldn’t. I am drunk and emotional.I clutch at his shoulders and press my wet cheeks to his skin, a cryingdrunk.

"I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I didn’t-I couldn’t- you wouldn’t have...I’m sorry."I whisper, over and over. But the damage is done now. He knows I don’ttrust him.

"Forgive me." I whisper, and he shakes his head against my temple.

"Just forget." He replies, and he’s crying too. He hugs me tight, hishand on my back as we rock together.

"I love you. I love you!" I cry passionately. He laughs, hollowly, andkisses my temple. "I love you too." He says finally, brokenly. I hold himas we soothe each other, holding on tightly. I kiss his neck and weep withhim. I love him. But it is obvious, even to my own blind eyes, that I don’ttrust him. I may even fear him a little. We love each other. And it mightnot be enough.

-------
 
 

Feedback please to : kitty_amazon@yahoo.com

Part 2