Quote from ThePlotMurderer on June 23, 2024, 12:14 pm

George Washington High School

"Coffee Clutch"

Teague looked down the barrel at the light, and after deciding that it was clean, he started to reassemble his Para 14. Within a minute had done so, and he moved on to his Glock 26.

It would be cold enough, no one wo say anything about him wearing a heavy leather jacket.

After the death of Terrance, combined with everything that had gone on...like Hell he wasn't going armed.

Putting away the cleaning supplies, he wiped his hands clean before taking out the ammo boxes for both, and started loading them.

Teague heard footsteps down the hallway just as he'd finished loading his .45. Flicking the safety off, he quietly made his way out of the office...to come face to face with his Vice Principal.

"Evening, Theodora. Couldn't sleep?"

Theodora looked up at her colleague. She wasn't surprised he was wandering about the school too. Such things had been old hat to him long before she'd tried them out.

"Neither could you," she pointed out, "I suppose that will make me fairly useless on that grotesque road trip tomorrow. But it can't be helped."

"Can't be helped."

He motioned towards the office and asked, "Buy you a cup of coffee?"

Theodora got to her feet, "Thank you,"

She and Edward both knew the old Mr. Coffee rig in the faculty lounge was a treacherous old monster, and produced tar just as often as something passing for coffee. But she'd never minded it and Teague...well she suspected he lived off the stuff.

"You certainly don't want me to bore you to death with this," she told him as they started down the hall, "But I checked with the charter bus. They'll be along at seven on the dot tomorrow. We both know that means eight o'clock, but everybody else will be too tired to notice, I expect."

As they entered the lounge, Teague discreetly tucked the pistol in the small of his back and said, "Of course they will be."

Walking up to the coffee machine, he flipped a switch. Nothing happened. He slapped the side of it and it worked.

"One of these days I'm going to fix this blasted thing."

He looked back to his VP and asked, "May I confide in you?"

Theodora smiled at him, "Of course."

She crossed to the little rack next to the sink, where the communal coffee mugs were left. There were currently just three left (she suspected the librarian had been slowly but steadily stealing them, but she had no evidence on this score). Assessing the patterns she asked Teague, "Flowers, puppies or Grumpy the Dwarf?"

"Puppies of course," Teague happily accepted the mug and sighed. He could pussyfoot around the issue...but that wasn't his style.

So he decided to just blurt it out. "I think Jamie is sleeping with Noah Foster."

Theodora handed Teague his mug and accepted Grumpy for her own (they were boon companions now, she and her), only to nearly drop it at her colleague's next words.

"Jamie," she said curtly, "Your daughter, Jamie. And...Noah Foster."

Finally, she managed, "Why?" which seemed the only sensible question to ask.

"Or at least dating her," Teague shrugged.

"He's been coming over more lately, and I've seen her dropping him off at school too."

He shook his head, "It could be worse, right?"

Theodora was dimly aware that some business had begun between Noah and Jamie last spring shortly after the girl's return from county jail. At the time she hadn't paid it much mind because, well...murders and whatnot.

"He's a good boy," she conceded, "Man. Young man. A good person," she cleared her throat, "Very intelligent."

She decided not to acknowledge the poor kid's poor history with girlfriends. After all...

"You approve of him, then?"

Clearly, Jamie did. That was the most important thing, but Teague was old fashioned enough (and Theodora, nearly old fashioned enough) to appreciate some other sentiments.

Teague tapped the mug and flat out said, "I'm not sure yet. I mean, at least he's that punk, Lance Wilson. But..."

He shook his head. "But he's still a teenager. They both are, but still."

He didn't bring up Foster's bad luck with women. He couldn't fault him for that. But on the other hand, he was a teenage boy, who likely only had one thing on his mind...

"If he is, I'm gonna have to have a talk with him soon."

"Jamie's almost 20, Edward," Theodora reminded him gently, "And, anyway, most teenagers decide they aren't that the moment they can vote, smoke and enlist."

"I know, Theodora, I know. I just..." Teague sighed, "I just don't want to see her get hurt. If something happened to her, or Sarah, or Anne... I don't know what I'd do."

"You can't be faulted for that," she told him, "It's the most natural thing in the world."

And here you are, childless and matronly, giving this advice.

Theodora shut that voice up swiftly enough, "Trust is a powerful thing, Edward. Sometimes it's all we can to trust that the people we know best will act the best they can. Your daughter's no fool. Impulsive, certainly," she allowed a smile, "But she's a clever girl. I venture to guess she knows what she's doing."

Teague sighed and replied, "You're right. I need to trust her... and Foster too."

Theodora nodded, "I doubt you'll be surprised."

She'd never seen him surprised before, in any case, even when things were at their worst here. She'd seen him sad (very rarely), angry (even more infrequent, and terrifying because of that), and she'd even seen him speechless (just as frightening, but for a different reason).

Never surprised.

Allowing a brief laugh, she told him, "Do you know how long we've been at this, you and I?"

"How long," asked Teague.

"Too long," she told him, "Honestly, near twenty years now. Somehow, though, it feels time only started moving last year."

She figured he knew what she meant by that.

"How long," asked Teague.

"Too long," she told him, "Honestly, near twenty years now. Somehow, though, it feels time only started moving last year."

She figured he knew what she meant by that.

"Theodora...I haven't decided yet, but...how do you think the Superintendent would react, if I went back to teaching History?"

Theodora raised her eyebrows, "The Superintendent? I couldn't give a toss what the cantankerous crone thinks about..."

But she trailed off, realizing what he was talking about, "History? Well, I'm sure you'd be very good at it..."

She'd come on board at GWH well after he'd become principal, so she couldn't claim to know from personal experience. She knew some of the best years of her career had been, not as an administrator, but as a Biology teacher. There was something about teaching that stuck with you.

"But then," she added, perhaps stupidly, "Who'll be principal?"

"Take a guess," Teague replied.

Theodora had to admit she was lost for words, standing there, Grumpy mug in hand, stammering like a fool, "But...but Edward! That's...that's..."

Oh, to hell with modesty, you've been in this career long enough.

"Well, certainly I'd be honored, if the Board of Ed chose to appoint me, and certainly if you recommended me..." Though, truth be told, she wasn't sure how much weight Teague's recommendation would hold with the state board. Their district (usually academically spotless, at least when viewed under the microscope of the Louisiana Educational System) hadn't had a sterling reputation in recent quarters.

"But I have to ask what brought this on?"

"Well you know I've always been restless. I've done some good, I've cut down the amount of bullying, but I hate being cooped up in that office," he looked at his untouched coffee and confessed, "Actually I think the straw that broke my back was Terrance Smith."

He saw the look, and said, "And no, I don't blame myself for it. I'm just... I don't know."

Theodora sighed, "I can't blame you. Some days I wonder if this is all worth the trouble myself," she looked across at him, "All this death, all this suffering... We're supposed to protect these kids as well as educate them."

She looked across at him, "If you decide to return to teaching, Edward, that's your choice and yours alone. I'd be honored to succeed you, and secure you a place here, make no mistake. But...consider it first, please."

"Like I said, I haven't decided yet." He finally took a sip of the coffee.

"Maybe this retreat will help us too. Though I'll admit it. Firing Harold was probably the quickest decision I've ever made."

"And the wisest," Theodora granted, "Though I have been missing his mood charts, I must admit. They had a certain crude charm to them."

Really, though, she was pleased the new social worker had been so well received, even if Dr. Hendricks required a much more substantial salary, being an actual doctor as she was. It was worth it, though, Theodora told herself.

"You think the kids like her?"

Theodora made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat, "It's not mine to say. She seems up to the job, at any rate."

She allowed a tiny smile, "You know, she did try to talk me out of this retreat business. Seemed very put out when I told her the writing was all on the wall already. Though...and this is between you and me, you know I have a reputation...I do wish she wouldn't use so much of that psychology jargon. I felt like I needed my own DSM to parse what she was saying."

She resisted using the phrase 'psychobabble', though 'jargon' did come to about the same thing. Still, Hendricks did seem to know what she was doing, and she didn't mind working out of an office the size of a broom closet, which was just the kind of spirit Theodora wished everybody had at this institution.

"I've actually had to get one, after the first few times weve talked."

Teague didn't admit that he secretly believed that she had diagnosed him with what he already knew he had.

"Ah, well...at least she's something," Theodora decided, "We must all do our part," she nodded, "I only hope ours is enough."

Quote from ThePlotMurderer on June 23, 2024, 12:15 pm

Hudson Household

"Dysfunction Junction"

Smoke kissed Deanna as they laid on the bed together. God, this retreat had her tense.

Deanna kissed him back, before sitting up and running a hand through her hair. She was tense, that much was obvious, she had been there the night the killer had gotten Terrance, she was the one who had taken the call on Audrey's phone.

"Shit..I can't believe this retreat is still going on." She mumbled, reaching for her cell phone to look at the time.

Setting it down on the side table, she reached for the joint and the lighter, sparking it up and taking a drag off it before passing it over to Smoke as she exhaled.

"A killer on the loose...at least I got my gun and you." She joked, trying to lighten the obvious tension she had weighing down on her right now.

"You a got a trained killa for a bodyguard. Relax," he said, before taking a hit off the blunt.

"You want a massage?"

His hands might be dangrous weapons...but he knew how to give a killer massage.

Deanna looked over at him, shaking her head a moment.

"I just want this trip to be cancelled."

She reached over and took the blunt, taking a hit off it before passing it back to him.

One of her biggest fears, was that Kieran would get out, that he would call somehow and torture her yet again.

"At least I ain't gotta worry about Kieran."

"If that fool calls you again, you let me deal with him," Smoke replied, taking a mighty hit.

As if on que, Deanna's phone started ringing.

Deanna turned at the noise, reaching over and picking up her phone.

She answered the call, putting it up to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Deanna. You missed me?"

There was no mistaking the voice on the speaker. Kieran...

Deanna tensed up instantly, sitting straighter as she clutched the phone.

"Hell no I haven't...and who gave you phone privileges?"

Her voice was tense, as was every part of herself right now.

She wasn't sure how to react, her murderer of a brother was calling her.

"Burner phone, duh. I just wanted to see how my baby sister was doing..."

Smoke immediately took the phone and yelled, "You picked the wrong girl, Fool! I'll mess with your nervous system if you ever call again! You won't know why you dead!"

He hung up handed it back to Deanna. "Problem solved."

Deanna sat there, staring at her phone and just shaking her head.

"He's got a burner phone..."

She couldn't shake it, couldn't shake the fear that was coursing through her.

"What the hell could he have wanted?"

Part of her wanted to know, hell she was curious about why the hell he was calling her.

"My guess? He wanted to scare you."

Smoke let Deanna lean against him and said, "He ain't ever getting out."

Deanna leaned back against him, shaking her head again.

"I think we might need some more heat for the retreat, just in case."

Though she hoped she was wrong, she had a bad feeling.

Her gut told her something bad was near.

***

Tina furrowed her brow, "Did you hear something?"

She sat up in her chair, "Eli?"

She poked him in the arm. He muttered something vaguely sexual and nearly fell from his chair.

"Night, pookey face," she muttered, getting to her feet (and catching herself on the table as she did so; God, that gas station whiskey kicked) and starting for the stairs. She knew she'd heard a ringtone, and there was only one other person who that could...

Wait. There were voices upstairs. Talking. To each other.

Two people, then.

"For the love of..." she grumbled, picking up the pace and throwing open the door to Deanna's room the instant she reached the landing.

She was greeted with a winning view of her headcase niece in bed with a background character from The Wire, enveloped in a thick, foul smelling miasma that brought tears to her eyes at once. A thousand oaths and expletives ran through her mind, but she was too drunk to remember any of them so she settled on the old standby.

"What the Christ is this?"

Deanna looked up when her aunt came in, rolling her eyes as she looked at her. She had remembered where she was, but she hadn't expected her aunt to come barging in and voicing her damn opinions on the current situation she was in.

"Its whatever I want it to be, Smoke's my man...get over it."

She shrugged her shoulders, looking at the woman as she took another hit off the blunt before handing it back to Smoke. Her eyes deadpanned on her aunt, her arms crossing in front of her chest a moment as she watched her.

"And why the hell do you care anyways? You only keep me 'round for the damn checks."

Tina blinked once, twice and, assessing that she was not having a stroke, rasped out, "Smoke?" she looked from the lily white scab in the bed to the nimbus whirling around his head, "Obviously. Oh, Dee, you sure know how to pick 'em. Junior White Pride one weekend, Daddy Puff Sauce the next!"

At the checks comment, Tina raised an eyebrow, "Oh? Do I? Honey, if I was blowing your child support on myself, do you think there would be mildew in every hole in this house?" seizing on the idea, she turned to 'Smoke', "I do mean every hole, kid. Get out while you can."

"Her crazy ass brother called her, FYI," said Smoke, getting off the bed and grabbing his cap.

"I threatened him off."

Before he jumped out the window, he looked back at Tina. She really needed to chill out. So he threw a dimebag of weed at her and said, "Peace out, yo!"

Without another word, he jumped out the window and started jogging.

Deanna got up off the bed, grumbling before she snatched up the dimebag of weed and held onto it.

"God your so annoying...just get out of my room."

She moved to the window, staring at the retreating form of Smoke, before turning and facing her aunt. God that woman could drive her insane, and right now she had just sent the one person away that she was comfortable around.

"I gotta get ready for the trip, so get out so I can pack."

Tina looked from the open window to the little pouch at her feet, picking it up in one hand with a scowl.

Finally, she told her niece, "If you think I'm fumigating this room, you've another thing coming."

Deanna stared at her aunt, rolling her eyes. "Like I care."

She shifted and flopped onto her bed, snagging the blunt out of the small ashtray next to her bed. She lit it up once more, taking a hit from it before blowing out the smoke towards her aunt. Sure it seemed childish, but hey her psycho brother had just called her.

Tina wrinkled up her nose, fanning away the fumes enough to clear her own head, in a manner of speaking, "And what the hell is this I hear about your brother?"

She recalled now that she had heard a phone ringing from downstairs. It's the only reason she'd come up here to begin with.

"He can't call you, he's in a goddamn Supermax," she hesitated, adding, with less conviction, "Isn't he?"

Deanna took another hit off the blunt, looking at her.

"He got a burner phone."

It was a simple enough solution, and granted she wasn't sure how to feel about it all, considering that things were even more chaotic now. Terrance was dead, and her brother calling her, was he still in Supermax?

"Anything else I can help you with? I'm gonna smoke this blunt, than finish packing and go to bed."

"Your brother..." Tina caught herself, "Your homicidal maniac brother called you from jack knows where and you're just sitting there puffing a fatty?!"

She shook her head, "I swear to God, Dee, if you bring that thing back here to me...to Eli your ass is grass!"

She paused, realizing how that sounded and, deciding she wouldn't stay to be ridiculed, charged out of the room, barely realizing she still held on the dimebag in her hand.

"Can you at least leave the weed?"

Deanna called back as she watched her aunt leave.

Like hell she wanted Kieran back here, hell she wanted to shoot him in the face. She realized how ridiculous her aunt had sounded, and a laugh escaped her lips as she watched the thick smoke billowing in the air. Damn, Smoke always did have good weed.

"Screw you!" Tina called back without even turning, tossing the dime bag to the corner of the kitchen as she returned.

Eli was still slumped over in his chair, snoring softly. Poor kid...he deserved more than this. So much more than she could give.

Cursing under her breath, Tina moved to the sofa and collapsed into a heap onto it.

***

Deanna grumbled, following her aunt downstairs and into the kitchen.

"You wish." She mumbled, looking around.

Upon spotting the prize, she moved to the corner of the kitchen and picked up the dimebag before turning to head back upstairs and into her room. She had to check her ammo supply anyways, and make sure her gun was ready to go for the trip tomorrow.

No matter what the event or occasion, she never went anywhere without packing heat anymore.

Deanna made her way downstairs, running a hand through her hair as she thought about what she wanted to eat right now. The munchies were hell, but hey at least she didn't have to deal with the call sober right now.

She looked around in the kitchen, pulling out a few bottles of soda and some chips.

Turning, she glanced in the living room and saw Eli and her aunt both passed out. She moved into the room silently, nudging her cousin with her foot. "Yo, Eli...wake up man." She murmured, knowing she probably sounded stoned as hell right now.

"Eeeeeeeliiiiiii...." She murmured, laughing gently.

Eli's vaguely erotic dreaming was interrupted by a high, keening, birdlike sound that he might have been willing to dismiss as a feverish conjuration were it not for the fact that A.) he knew very well what family he belonged to and B.) recent events had forced even his subconscious to overanalyze everything for evidence of subterfuge.

Not exactly a recipe for a good night's sleep.

"Dee?" he muttered warily, blinking awake, "What time is..."

He stopped himself, figuring she either didn't or didn't care (probably both). He settled on a more sensible question, "Why do you smell like hash?"

Deanna held back a laugh, "Because Smoke left me some dank weed."

She adjusted her hold on the sodas and chips, reaching down to pull him up.

"Come on, get up and come smoke with me." She said, glancing towards her unconscious aunt before she looked back and her cousin and tugged on his arm a bit more. She wanted company before the horrific events of tomorrow retreat going on. "We've got that stupid retreat tomorrow...and right now, I could use the company."

Eli grimaced, "Please...don't ever say 'dank' again."

He allowed her to drag him to his feet (having surrendered his own agency at about the same time he'd consigned himself to a life of mopping up his mother's vomit and screening all her phone calls), "Fine. I'll get high with you. Which I wouldn't need to do if I'd been allowed to sleep in peace, but so much for that."

He craned his neck enough to glimpse the snoring form of his mother in the next room, turning back to Deanna, "You've got to stop bringing your new side piece here. Someone's gonna suss something out at some point, and then we'll all be sorry."

He realized he was emphasizing all his S's and decided that maybe getting a little stoned wouldn't be a bad idea after all.

Deanna walked upstairs to her room, shaking her head ass she looked at her cousin.

"Trust me...I need all the help I can get right now."

She flopped down on her bed, pulling over the dimebag from her side table, and the joint wraps. She began to roll a joint before she looked at her cousin, "Kieran called me..." She said, her eyes sobering slightly as she looked down at what she was doing.

"He has a burner phone...which means that he can call me at anytime..."

Eli turned to her with a new attention, suddenly feeling as if he were being slowly dunked into ice cold water. Every part of him was on edge, alert, electrified.

"Kieran?" the name passed his lips like some forgotten curse, and he was surprised he couldn't speak louder than a whisper.

Kieran. Charming, smug, shitheel Kieran. He could feel his heart beating against his ribs, irritating the scar tissue there. Or maybe it was reacting to something else...

"What...what did he want?" he heard himself ask.

Deanna looked towards her cousin as she finished rolling the joint, pulling her lighter over and sparking it up before taking a big drag. She held the joint towards her cousin, knowing he would need this just as much as she did right now.

"He wanted to see if I missed him..."

She ran a hand through her hair, pulling her legs up beneath her on the bed.

"Smoke pulled the phone away and threatened Kieran...than hung up." Sure that was something she was pretty sure she didn't want to venture into, and right now she was afraid of just what her psychotic brother had actually wanted from her right now.

"Good old Smoke..." muttered Eli, "I bet he thought he was being a real badass there."

It didn't make sense. Kieran was in maximum security. How the hell did he get his hands on a phone? Bought one off the black market? Haggled with a guard? If he'd haggled for it...did that mean he had help on the inside? Eli knew criminals, he'd grown up around them, he'd lived in their world, he understood the types of people unsavory types flocked too.

And Kieran...charismatic, suave, quick-thinking Kieran was just that kind of person. It had served him well his entire life, why shouldn't it serve him now, even with his true colors bared for all to see?

"Well, we've gotta go to the cops about it," he pointed out, "We...we can't risk him futzing around with a direct line to anywhere he wants!"

No! Hell no!" Deanna said, shaking her head quickly as she looked at her cousin. She knew that he was right, but damn if she was going to go to the cops about anything, if shit went down, that was the last thing she wanted. "Look how good that went for us all last time..."

Her mind drifted, back to Clark's death, back to the death's of everyone.

Suddenly the scar on her arm began to burn, as if psycho-somatic because of how it happened.

"I won't go to the cops...Eli I can't do that, because what if they are helping him?" She didn't want to say it, but she had too, what if her cousin was getting help from all the way here in Lakewood. She was afraid of that, but at least she had Smoke.

Oh, for God's sake, Dee!" Eli snapped, "You think I'm cool with the cops? My entire life I spent catching a rap for Kieran's bullshit, up to and including fucking homicide! Frankly, my dear cousin, Blue Lives can suck a cock for all I care, but this is serious!"

He broke off, realizing he was hyperventilating.

"Help? From the..."

Well, it wasn't like he hadn't been considering it himself. But that was, like, prison guards. The cops here, in town...

"You sure you're not related to me on my Mom's side?" he asked at length, "You're about as paranoid."

And as scrupulous about boyfriends.

Deanna reeled on her cousin, shaking her head.

"Are you kidding me?! Like I want to be a paranoid freak like this?! I wasn't like this before my brother did all of this! I used to be normal damnit!" She barked out, shaking her head as she took another hit off the joint.

She knew how ridiculous it all sounded right now, especially considering the facts.

"We can't avoid it...you know it could be true, I mean think about it Eli...you know how cunning my brother can be."

Eli shook his head, "Don't do that," he told her, "You weren't ever normal, Dee, just like I wasn't normal, and my Mom wasn't, and Kieran wasn't, and...and Emma wasn't and goddamn Smoke wasn't either! Nobody's normal, and there's no magic switch that gets pulled whenever bad shit happens that suddenly makes us abnormal, it's..." he let out an aggrieved groan, bemoaning how his cousin could be both so intelligent and such a twit.

"...it's not that easy."

He leaned against the wall, catching his brother, "You know why Kieran's calling you, right? Not Emma, not me...you?"

"Because he wants to torment me...to let me know that he's not done with me." Deanna said, trying to imagine what other reason someone could have for all of this right now. She needed to breathe, to figure this all out, and she had the worst feeling in the pit of her stomach right now about everything. This retreat wasn't a good idea, there was no way it was a good idea right now.

She looked at her cousin, "He wants me dead because I didn't stick by him..." she finally managed to say the truth she knew it most likely was.

"Sure," Eli agreed with her. Ugly as it was, it was very likely the truth.

"Maybe he blames you for not helping get away with it. Maybe he wants to make you squirm. Maybe he's sitting up at night, all alone in that bunk thinking of precious little Deanna, his baby sister, who he did so much to protect, and who is now selling him out every day she doesn't mail him a nail file in a birthday cake! So he gets it in his head that he's gonna play some more games with you, make you squirm, freak you out, pressure you into..."

He didn't finish the thought.

"Dee, he wants you to keep this quiet. Do us both a favor, yeah? Let's not give him what he wants. Just once?"

Deanna listened to what he was saying, and right now she couldn't do this, couldn't go to the cops about it all. "I can't do that Eli, and neither can you. Because if in fact my brother does happen to get out somehow...who do you think he'll come after first?" She asked her cousin, taking another hit off the joint in her hand as she unscrewed one of the soda bottles.

"Maybe he does want to torture me, maybe it is my fault. And you know what...I don't blame him for trying to get to me."

She couldn't think of her cousin or even her deranged aunt getting hurt because of this, and she surely didn't want to let her brother play these sick mind games with her for much longer right now.

"And that is the exact reason we go to the..."

But he paused at Deanna's next thought, feeling his shoulders slump. He wasn't about to ask Dee why she felt responsible for Kieran. He supposed if he had grown up with someone who turned out to be a homicidal maniac, he'd feel guilty for not seeing it too.

So, instead of platitudes, he leaned over the table, looking across at her, "Well, you know what, Dee? I blame him for trying to get to you. Just like I blame him for trying to get to me," he lifted his shirt to display his own scar, still clear as day despite the intervening months, "And Emma and everybody else he killed and tried to kill."

He lowered his shirt, "What do any of us, what do any of them get out of you letting him come for you?"

Me shooting him in the face." Deanna exclaimed, shaking her head as she held the joint out towards him.

She knew that this was bad, she knew that this was going to be utterly crazed right now and she didn't want to think about everything. She looked at her cousin, taking a sip from the soda to quench the rising cotton mouth that she was getting from the weed. She shifted a bit more, looking at her cousin and sighing gently before taking another swig from her soda.

"Your not the only one scarred from those events...we all are in one way or another." She commented, watching him for another few moments right now.

"That was the point, Dee, thanks for following," he muttered, lighting the joint with some reluctance and taking a ginger (if not unwelcome) puff.

"Just...don't play into his hands. You're better than that."

"Yeah I know...trust me. I ain't gonna play his game." Deanna commented, leaning back against the headboard of her bed as she glanced over at her duffel bag that was pretty much packed already. She wasn't even sure if going was a good thing.

"I don't even know about this retreat..."

"Then the next time you get a call from some mysterious alien number..." he shrugged, "Ignore it."

Somewhat gratified at the change of subject, Eli smirked, "What? Not up for ice breakers and nondenominational prayer circles?"

"As long as I've got enough weed and maybe other things than it should be fine."

Deanna joked, reaching for the joint and ruffling up her cousin's hair a bit. "Go sleep, I gotta finish packing and than attempt to sleep too." She said, knowing that she needed to get some cash and some ammo and her gun out of hiding so that she could pack it all securely in the stash spot of her duffel and jacket.

"Wow...go sleep," Eli nodded, "Funny, I was just doing that when I certain somebody woke me up to get high."

He smiled at her all the same, "'Night, Dee."

He wasn't about to wish her sweet dreams. She wasn't going to have them anyway, and less so if he asked. He could only hope that, somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she'd listened to a word he'd said tonight.

Quote from ThePlotMurderer on June 23, 2024, 12:16 pm

Jensen Household

"Ghost Stories"

"I saw her again." Audrey didn't have to say who. They both knew the ghost of Rachel Murray haunted Audrey to this day. Her therapist told her it was her PTSD. But she knew a ghost when she saw one.

Howard heaved a sigh, putting the pen aside. Wordlessly, he patted the spot next to him on the couch, "You've been seeing her more and more recently, haven't you?"

Audrey hestitanly sat down on the couch and nodded.

"I think she's trying to say something."

Howard nodded. His daughter had been seeing Rachel (well...seeing her spirit, he supposed) one and off for the last year. There'd been in a lull over the summer, after Kieran Wilcox had been unmasked.

But now, in the wake of Terrance Smith's murder...isolated incident though it may have been...it seemed hardly a night went by without some visitation from her Lost Lenore.

"Audrey, you know my opinion on ghosts," he told her quite frankly, "I won't hash it all out with you about logistics and the immortal soul till kingdom come... Frankly it's too late and...my mind's a bit scattered myself. But I wonder..."

He looked at her, frankly as he could, "Might it be that it isn't Rachel that wants to tell you something...but yourself? That your...subconscious," he didn't want to say soul, he honestly didn't feel like a theological debate at present, "Wants to tell you something?"

"Like what, though?"

"I'm afraid nobody would know that more than you," said Howard gently.

He didn't exactly want to say what he next said, but he did, after some long consideration, "You know guilt is entirely natural. It's part of grief. Audrey, when your mother passed..." he sighed, "Not a day went by when I didn't think of some other way I might've saved her. If I'd been to more doctors, raised some more money, found a better hospital... The reasons got more and more irrational by the day. Eventually I was going over every argument we ever had, every disagreement, as if by changing those I could somehow save her from her fate.

But that wasn't it, was it? It was just...guilt for all the times we had disagreed. And all the times where I could no longer make up with her."

Audrey was quiet for a minute. And then it came to her. "Dad, before we go tomorrow...can we stop by Rachel's grave?"

Howard looked up at her, surprised, yet weirdly gratified, "Whatever you like."

It would be good, certainly. Especially given the retreat's 'mission statement' of spiritual healing. Most of Audrey's grief seemed to derive in no uncertain terms from Rachel. It only made sense she 'visit' her beforehand.

"Thanks, Dad." Audrey wrapped Howard in a hug and left the study.

"Don't mention it," he told her, meaning it, "Now, to bed. Long day tomorrow."

Long, yes... But worth it. He could only hope.

Quote from ThePlotMurderer on June 23, 2024, 12:17 pm

Wren Lake

"Hearts & Flowers"

Carl pulled the Ford Ranger over and shut off the engine.

Without a word, he pulled out his phone and texted to one of the few friends he had.

'Hey Micah. How you doing?'

Micah lifted his head from the pillow as it started vibrating, "Gielgud, you are totally gro..."

The cat seemed to shirk his eyes at him, perhaps insulted. And justifiably, given the vibrating was coming from his phone.

He considered it, not really up for a chat at this hour. Consulting the interface, however, and seeing the name, Micah figured he had no choice.

"You know," he told Carl, picking up the phone, "Anybody awake at this hour has got to be up to no good."

Carl smiled. Micah always managed to make him smile.

'Well, I've got some shine and some MJ, if you want any."

Micah chuckled lightly, tucking his legs underneath his body and his hair behind his ear.

'You're going to get me in so much trouble, one of these days.'

Sometimes he wondered where this friendship had come from. Rarely, however, did he resent it.

'Got a place?'

"Either my truck, or the shack. Your choice." Carl texted back.

Micah looked from Geilgud to his phone, considering, 'Unless that crate has a space heater, count me out. Truck.'

"I'll be there in a minute," Carl started the truck and headed towards Micah's house.

Within 5 minutes, he was two houses away from Micah's. He texted, "I'm two houses down."

Micah grinned, looking out the window at the glimmer of headlights just where Carl said they would be.

'There in two shakes,' he texted, pocketing his phone and pulling his frayed wool jumper around his shoulders.

Lacing up his combat boots, he again noticing Gielgud eyeing him, "Don't look at me like that. I've got enough problems without a feline-induced complex."

Gielgud opted to fall asleep just then like an intelligent animal. Not nearly so clever, Micah opened the window ("Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God Jesus you're an idiot...") and began the process of clambering down.

This wasn't the first time he'd done this of course. Even before he'd made unlikely friends with a delinquent, he'd been fond of sneaking out on clear summer nights and going places. The lake, most often, given it was right there outside his house. Once or twice he'd gone to the overlook above the town, hanged out with some friends from the reparatory, gotten drunk and high and forgetful.

They were good memories, even if he could no longer believe they were real.

He felt his boots on the hard packed grass of the lawn (neither Mother nor Father were green thumbs) and moved toward the pick-up down the road. From here, he could make out the big darkened hulk of the Mayoral Mansion, where Lakewood's fallen princess was probably having her own feverish night, alone with her worries and her guilt.

Maybe he shouldn't feel so pressed over the stupid retreat, after all.

"Hey," he leaned in to the open driver's side window, drawing up close to the truck, "No loitering, bub. Didn't you read the sign?"

There were no signs, except for some old Reelect Maddox for Mayor poster boards scattered around the lakefront, all of which had been graffitied beyond recognition (Micah had to admit, his favorite one replaced the word 'Maddox' with 'Mulch', and included an attractive Pentagram, presumably because Quinn Maddox had been hard on Satanists or something, he had no idea.

"Good to see you too," replied Carl before he reached over and unlocked the other door.

"You want to stay here, or by the lake?"

"It's freeze..." he began, but stopped himself, looking up at the sky, the spread of stars overhead and thinking, unbidden, of the Hypothetical Brooke Maddox in her hypothetical dark dungeon of a house.

"Aw, what the hell? Nice night for it."

He offered Carl a hand to help him out.

Carl gratefully accepted the hand out. Locking the truck behind him, he opened the toolbox, revealing two Mason Jars.

He passed Micah one and took the other for himself. "Shall we make a toast?"

Micah chuckled, accepting the jar, "Minor confession? I don't really wanna get plastered,"

He set it down next to him on the grassy sward of the lake bed.

"But I wasn't gonna say 'no' to a little conversation," he added, "Full disclosure, I was getting kinda lonely."

"That makes two of us," Carl put the jar down too, and sat next to Micah. Looking at the lake, he said, "My Uncle came by last week on leave. He's doing good."

"Oh?"

Carl didn't often talk about his family. Well, given his parents, this wasn't a grand surprise. If Micah had two newly emboldened professional bigots as parents, he'd be pretty embarrassed too. But Carl did often speak of his uncle who was, apparently, a Decent Guy.

"Does he...get along with your Dad?" he ventured cautiously.

"It's...it's strained. But he's said, you can't choose your family."

"Pfft," Micah said before he could think better of it.

Realizing that sounded rude, he added, "If your family's a bunch of pricks, you can choose to tell them to bug off. It's psychology," he put an affectation on the word, anticipating the scorn he'd get for referring to his parents' dual profession, "We feel bonded to people we're related to, so it makes it hard to realize they've done something wrong..."

He shrugged, "You earn a lot of mind mojo points for getting to that point."

"Forget them being in the Klan...I just wish they didn't drink so much..." Carl looked at the mason jar in disgust. Sure, he drank some...but not to their degree.

"I'm...I'm thinking of doing something."

Micah looked at Carl, aghast, for about thirty seconds before bursting into peals of laughter. Uncontrolable, raucous laughter.

"Only you, man..." he shook his head, lighting a cigarette (sure, he wasn't going to get drunk, but he had other vices), offering the case to Carl, "You know, racism is also a mental illness."

Though he sometimes wondered why Carl's parents bothered, Lakewood being whiter than talcum powder (and nearly as dangerous in large doses). Though the Vice Principal of their school was a Black woman, and they'd recently acquired a Latino Sheriff. Still, literally every house on this lake was occupied by white people, which said a lot about where the power was around here.

But, hey, bigotry is irrational, so they say.

"Well, don't just leave me hanging," he prompted, "Thinking of what? Dying all the sheets in the house orange? Ooh, we could paint Anarchy logos on 'em, or...or a crescent and sickle, or just a giant dick!"

"No, I meant in the future. I'm...I'm thinking of joining the military, like my Uncle." It was true. But that wasn't just it. He looked back to Micah and asked, "On another note...how'd you know that you were...you know?"

"Oh..." Micah cleared his throat, taking a drag on his cig, "Well, you already know I'm anti-war. That doesn't," he held up one finger, "mean anti-military, just that I think America likes starting wars more than finishing them, and it's a lot of money and time and..." he hesitated, suddenly self-conscious, "People...people put to waste."

Sometimes he wondered how Carl put up with him. Sure, they'd become acquainted under peculiar circumstances, to say the least, but the friendship thing had all come about later. Sometimes he worried he was trespassing on some sort of invisible socio-political boundary.

"But, you know, great benefits," he admitted, "And they pay for your Bachelor's, which...well, not even Broadway theater does that."

At the next subject, he cocked an eyebrow, "How'd I know what? That I was gorgeous?"

He beamed, "Nah, I get it..." he considered briefly, turning to Carl, "You sure you don't want a smoke? Before I...you know...get into it?"

Carl quietly accepted a cigarette and lit with his zippo.

Micah sighed, exhaling a plume of smoke into the dark.

"Well, it's not a thing you just realize out of the blue one day," he said softly, surprised at the sudden softness of his own voice, "Things sort of just...come to you, bit by bit. Like...I remember when I was really little...we're talking four or five...I was watching Beauty & the Beast and...it was that scene when they're having the snowball fight?"

He wasn't sure whether or not the Disney Animated Canon had been acceptable viewing in Carl's house. Somehow, Micah doubted it.

"I remember feeling all...light and fluttery when the Beast smiled. Lightheaded, you know? Something about him...Don't look at me like that..." he wasn't even sure if Carl was looking at him, it was just a preemptive reaction, "For the record, I didn't think much of him when he turned back into a Prince. But...yeah, I guess the first man I ever loved was a cartoon warthog in 18th century costume. Doesn't get much gayer than that."

He considered, "But the first time I knew I was gay, like after I knew what gay was..." he looked at Carl out of the corner of his eye, "You remember Will Belmont? Center forward on the basketball team? He..." he bit his lip, "He died last year?"

"That is pretty gay," Carl agree, taking a long drag.

"He was the guy who video taped Emma's first time, right?"

Micah sighed, "Yeah...yeah he was. He was also her boyfriend, but I guess that doesn't matter."

Now that he thought about it, poor Emma Duval had shitty taste in men. Well, aesthetically, she had great taste in men, but...well, you know.

"Well...and we're going back to junior high, now, I was about 13... I remember we'd just had gym and we were cleaning up after," he felt his cheeks heating up, "I'd looked at Will once or twice before, and...well, he was charming and stuff. Never thought more of it than that.

But then...that day I got a look of him changing. All sweat and...and the muscles moving in his back and...and his legs..." even now, years later, Micah found his breath was suddenly short, his fingers shaking as they held the cigarette.

"He caught me looking at him, I know he knew what was up. Him and that asshole Dom Greco. Remember him?" he scoffed, "Greco pointed it out, got into my face, called me a..." he shrugged, "Called me a fag," he said the word as if it were nothing, yet the memory of that time, that leering face, still sent a cold chill up his spine.

"But Will...he just told Greco to cut it out," he bit his lip, remembering him standing there, seeming to tower over him, sweat-sodden teeshirt hanging off those well-formed shoulders. And Micah had felt so small, so tiny and powerless and so, so stupidly in awe of a seventh grader.

"And he asked me if I was okay, and what was I gonna do? I said yeah...and he clapped me on the shoulder and my stomach fell out of my..." he swallowed, turning back to Carl, feeling vindicated, humiliated and, weirdest of all, relieved, "And then he went off on his own. Greco never bothered me again."

He sighed, "And Will never spoke to me again either. Full disclosure, I did watch that first time video when it leaked, just...out of curiosity," he cleared his throat, "Never tell Emma that. Or anybody. Please."

He'd cried when he heard what happened to Will. Privately, behind closed doors. It had felt selfish to cry for him, as if he'd known him, as if he'd been his friend. As if he'd ever been more than a moment, a dream, a fantasy...

"But...yeah," he nodded, "That's how I knew."

Suddenly feeling uncomfortable, he cleared his throat, "Well? What's your story? When did you know you were straight?"

Carl went quiet. He wanted to cry...

"I'm...I'm not straight," he whispered.

Micah turned to his friend, feeling the smoke pass through his lips in a thin plume. In the distance, a lark cawed some late night refrain, an almost ghostly noise, magnified in the silence of the night. A silence that seemed to shrink them as much as it magnified everything else...the rustling of the wind, the cawing of the lark, the lapping of the lake against the shore. He and Carl were infinitesimal specks in the enormity of the world around them.

Part of the queer kid experience.

Finally, words did come to him, "Suddenly, a drink isn't looking all too bad."

And he lifted up the Mason jar where he put it down, "I believe you said something about a toast?" clearing his throat, he said, in his best stage voice, "Well, I propose one for you: To Carl Lennox, on his graduation from the closet!"

He smiled at him, "It's not as scary as it feels, now."

Carl nodded and took a pull of the 120 proof liqour. Moonshine, if made right, tasted just like water, with a kick.

"That's some good shit."

He took another sip and admitted, "Harry Potter is what made me realize I was...gay."

He'd finally said it.

Micah cocked an eyebrow, "Do we mean, like, book Harry Potter, or movie Harry Potter...because he does have this cute stoner undergrad sort of thing to him in the middle movies...or, just like...in general?"

He hesitated, "Hey, I just confessed a childhood romance with a cartoon, so you're not embarrassing yourself here."

It was a strange thing, hearing Carl say the word. It still didn't seem real. Micah usually had a fairly good head about these things. You had to, if you were gay. It was practically a survival instinct, figuring out who'd be okay with you...well, being into them...and who would be totally grossed out or worse...

But, oddly enough, he'd never considered that Carl might be anything other than some Redneck Reformer, thoroughly ensconced in musky heterosexuality. Gays, after all, didn't partake in moonshine, Micah rationalized, nursing his first (perhaps only, eurgh) sip of the stuff.

"I've never read the books," Carl admitted, taking another sip, "And...yeah. Daniel Radcliffe did it."

"Aw, we've got to get you educated," Micah laughed lightly, "There's a whole world of gay books out there for the reading. We'll start with My Secret Garden..." he cocked an eyebrow, deciding not to mention his discovery of the tattered paperback in his Mom's desk when he was 14, and the many sleepless hours he'd sat up, flipping through fantasy after fantasy, feeling his body come alive in a way it never had before.

"Maybe I'll bring it on the retreat, we can do a dramatic reading, sponsored by what remains of the Drama Society, post murder-induced budget cuts."

He remained in quiet silence, looking up at the sky, "Seriously, though. Thank you for telling me. I've...I've never had anyone come out to me before," he bit his lip, "I'm glad you chose me."

"Thanks, Micah," replied Carl.

"I...I never thought I would. I actually thought I'd take it to the grave."

Micah turned his head to the sky, sighing, "That's no way to live, no matter when you get to the grave."

A morbid comment, maybe, but valid enough. He wondered sometimes what they had all thought near the end. Had cold, frigid, Queen Bee-with-a-capital-'Bitch' Nina Patterson felt remorse when she felt the knife dig into her throat? Had mousy Riley Marra dreamed of her future, the doctorate she would never get, the accolodades she would never win? Had Will Belmont wished he'd been more fateful, had been kinder to his girlfriend, kinder to his friends?

Had he remembered one long ago act of kindness to one tiny, scared gay kid who hadn't realized then how in over his head he was?

"How far away the stars seem," he heard himself say suddenly, not looking away from those very points of light in the sky, "And how far is our first kiss..." he sighed, a sigh deeper and more dolorous than he thought himself capable, "And oh! How far my heart."

He turned to Carl, "Er...William Butler Yeats," clearing his throat, he added, "It's a big world, Carl. But that shouldn't stop us staking our claim in it. Life's too short to lie to ourselves."

Quote from ThePlotMurderer on June 23, 2024, 12:18 pm

Noah's Room

"Lover's Quarrel"

Noah sat alone in his s room as he started working on hos new murder board, this was the one of way too many. A picture of Terrance with a big red X on it was placed in the section for victims.

This was gonna be a hard year, he already knew it.

Jamie came back from the restroom to find Noah working on his latest murder board, as he called it.

"Any leads yet, Detective Foster?"

Noah turned around and smiled softly at the girl before turning back to his murder board, the truth was there weren't any real leads, this time the killer isn't toying with them in the aftermath of the murder.

All they had to go on was the initial call, and subsequent stabbing of Terrance Smith.

"No, not yet..But give it time, the killer wont want us feeling to safe."

"Why not though? It'd be the perfect time if we were all not alert," Jamie sat down on the bed, staring at her boyfriend/friend with benefits.

"I still can't believe your mom let's me sleep over sometimes."

Noah shook his head,

"See the killer would have to know that we would be on alert, but why would they wait so long though. They have to be planning something... Something big."

He let out a sigh as he sat on the bed, looking at Jamie and then his board.

"My mom still thinks I'm five, that I'm innocent."

Jamie chuckled at that.

"Oh really?"

Noah nodded softly as he laid back on his bed, trying to givw his brain a break from working overtime on the case.

Jamie put an arm around him and pulled him into a hug.

"I think my Dad knows about us."

"Well I don't think it matters much, us just being friends and all." Noah told the girl, as he wrapped an arm around her shoulder.

"Well...if we hadn been sleeping together, I'd agree," Jamie commented.

She looked him the eyes and said, "He's probably going to want to have a talk with you."

Jamie knew her father was, despite being extremely accepting of her being bi, very old fashioned in a lot of other things.

"Aren't there more important things to be discussed, like the murderer?"

"Noah, maybe you need to take a break. You're stressing yourself out."

Noah sighed, he knew he probably should take a break but he couldn't, he had to find out who the killer was, get this solved as soon as possible.

Jamie began massasging Noah's shoulders and continued, "I know you want to solve this. But you're not a cop."

He'd probably make a great one, if NASA didn't work out. And assuming that the NSA didn't try to recruit him...

"Plus, you need to sleep. You have a long trip ahead of you tommorow"

"The cops are useless, they have been the last two times."

"But they have more rescources than you."

She didn't bring up the fact that nothing Noah found could be used in court. Never mind that what he had planned for the killer...IF he somehow found him, was very illegal, and would put him in prison.

"Come on, Noah. It's late. We can pick this up fresh after you come back."

"Look maybe you should just go."

Jamie was silent at the words. She got up from the bed, and without turning around said, "I'll see you after the trip, Noah."

***

Jamie found herself crying in her car. Noah was letting his obsession consume him. Soon, she was driving around endlessly, until she came a familiar street. Maybe Audrey was still up...she parked and walked up to the door. With a sigh, she knocked.

Howard lowered his book, putting his spectacles aside. He didn't need to look at the clock to know how late it was, far too late for a visitor.

Assessing from the closed door and comparative silence from down the hall, he gathered Audrey had not been roused (and she hadn't snuck out; his ears were well trained by necessity in that regard), he moved cautiously down the steps.

In another time he would've swept the door open at once, no questions asked. But this time was not those times. He peered through the spyhole and, seeing the porcelain, heart-shaped face beyond, let out an involuntary sigh of relief.

"Jamie?" he asked, opening the door, "This is a surprise."

Noting the tear tracks on her face, he asked, feeling an uncomfortable tightening in his gut, "Are you alright?"

"Evening, Pastor Jensen...I was wondering if Audrey was up?" She needed to talk to someone...anyone. Except her Dad. Because God only knew what his reaction to Noah making her cry would be.

Howard stepped aside, "Audrey's upstairs," he looked her up and down, "Jamie, forgive me if I'm being presumptuous, but...are you alright?"

Jamie stepped in, and as the food was closed, she said, "No, I'm not."

It did make sense, then, that she would want to see Audrey. They'd been thick as thieves since they were children. And, indeed, the two girls were alike in a great many ways. Though, perhaps the biggest difference was that he needed to needle Audrey more often than not if something was bother her, while Jamie...

"I don't suppose this has something to do with your father?"

Edward Teague was unflappably devoted to the girl and, from what Howard could ascertain, Jamie returned the favor.

"No...and if he finds out, I don't know what he'll do to Noah," she said before she could even think.

"Noah?" Howard turned on his heel despite himself, "Noah...Foster?"

As if there was another Noah. Audrey's next oldest friend, that hiccup with Emma notwithstanding. The boy was entirely harmless, a complete goof, and thoroughly wellintentioned.

Then again, boys being what they were... And, of course, it Jamie was worried about how her father would react. Her father, one of the most composed, disciplined men Howard had ever known, a Medal of Honor recipient for heavens' sake...

Well, it must have been serious, indeed.

"Please, sit down," he told Jamie, indicating the living room, "Would you like a glass of milk? Juice?"

He wasn't about to offer coffee at this hour. And, though he sometimes suspected Jamie wasn't a stranger to some stronger stuff now and again, he wasn't going to offer it.

"Needless to say, Jamie, anything you tell me stays with me. Not even Audrey need know if you don't want her to. That is...if you're comfortable telling me to begin with."

Jamie shook her head and took a deep breath, "You know that Noah's always had... a thing about murders. Wanting to solve them like a puzzle. He's letting that kid...Terrance right...he's letting it consume him."

"Murders?"

Howard sighed. Well...at least she wasn't pregnant. He could assume.

He clasped his hands together, "He does fancy himself a junior detective, doesn't he?" he hesitated, "Don't tell me I called him that. I doubt he'd it was very flattering. But, really, it's...admirable that he's so driven to get the truth. But obsession is a corrosive thing. I can understand why you're worried. I sympathize."

He'd be lying if he said he hadn't lost sleep wondering at the face behind this newest mask. How could he not, with everything this parade of murderers had put his daughter and her friends through?

"But you don't just seem concerned, Jamie. You seem frightened ."

"He doesn't want to go to the cops. He says they're useless. I think... I think he wants to deal with himself," she admitted. Taking a deep breath, she continued, "He told me to leave tonight, because I tried to get him to take a break. To look at it when he got back."

Howard leaned back in his seat, "You know, it wouldn't be the first time he graduated from 'armchair detective' to 'freelance vigilante'. Granted, his track record is less than sterling, but...well, he is alive."

This wasn't very comforting. Perhaps it was a good thing Audrey didn't often confide in him. Or perhaps that was the very reason he was so bad at directness. It was different from the pulpit. Most things were. The preaching must manifest in practice, after all, if it's to mean anything.

"Just earlier this evening, I was thinking about my wife. I don't know how well you remember her..." he cleared his throat, sighing, "I was thinking about all the regrets I'd had when she became ill. Of all the hopes and dreams and sorrows. And how I knew, even then, how futile it was to fixate on them after Helen was gone. But I feel like I was coping, like I was managing, somehow. It gave me...some sort of comfort, even if it didn't feel comforting."

He looked up at her, "Perhaps Noah is doing the same thing. I can't speak to what he's learned. Perhaps he's learned nothing. But I wouldn't be surprised if his obsession is just another kind of mourning by worry, just another exorcising of regret."

"What should I do, then?" Though she wasn't any less frightened, the tears HAD stopped.

"I'll give you just the same advice I'd give my daughter if it were her,"

Though sometimes he worried Audrey's problem was closer to Noah's than Jamie's. She, too, was trapped under a tremendous burden of guilt. Why else should 'Rachel' be such a frequent visitor?

"Take some time for yourself," he told her, "You're a very intelligent young woman. And self-reliant. You can't be expected to dote on Noah. He'd made his own choice," he sighed, "You're right to be concerned. But to the point where it wears you down, breaks you up? Nobody is worth that. We must hope Noah comes around. Until then..." he shrugged, "Take care of yourself. There's nothing selfish about that."

"I think I will, Pastor Jensen. Thank you," She wiped away her tears and asked, "Can I crash here tonight?"

"The door is always open to you," Howard smiled, "I'll prepare the guest room," he got to his feet and moved for the stairs.

Still...there was an unease settling on him. All this talk of obsession, fixation, self-destruction. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps these things needed to be dealt with head on.

But as to how ...

He pushed the thought out of his head.

Quote from ThePlotMurderer on June 23, 2024, 12:20 pm

Smith Estate

"My Brother's Seeker"

The young jock fixed his hoodie, it was quite snug along his rather muscular chest.

He wasn't use to the popularity he recieved at school, people treated him VERY differently after he became a star player on the football team. He didn't know the kid who passed away that well, but as captain, he owed it to the school.

Besides, someone had to be the calm in the storm.

The boy marched up to Terrance's door, knocking. He wasn't sure who he expected to be there, but he most definitely wanted to help his parents pack.

Zach couldn't imagine how difficult things had to be for the loved ones...

***

Tracy was at Terrance's house, in his room packing up a few of his things that she knew he wouldn't have wanted her not to have. A few of his jackets, some of his fancier pieces of jewelry and watches, his cologne that he always wore, hell she had even taken the silk shirt he had gotten for that one night they had actually done everything together.

She moved and sat down on the edge of his bed, holding his shirt in her hands as she brought it up to her face so she could inhale the scent left from it. God she was going to miss him, the idiot had gone and died, which made it so much worse right now.

"Terrance you idiot..." She murmured as she held onto the shirt and laid back on the bed.

Tracy looked up at the sound of the door, she had already spoken to Terrance's parents, they had left her alone in the house to do with as she pleased while they went to some retreat thing.

She slowly got up off the bed, still clutching the silk shirt in her hand as she walked downstairs.

"Who is it?" She called out.

When she got to the door, she looked through the peep hole, blinking at the figure.

Throwing the door open, she eyed the male that stood before her right now. "Zach...you were the one we were all searching for that night at the park...the night that Terrance..." She shook her head, staring at him as she clutched the shirt tighter to her chest

"Yeah, I'm sorry for that.... I'm not sure what to say..." Zachary said, not wanting to elaborate on what had happened that night.

Bad memories.

"I... I'm sorry for your loss. I know you and Terrance were... Close." He added, choosing his words carefully.

He assumed she was unstable, and hell, for good reason.

Tracy shifted, looking at him. "I'm just glad your alive..."

The choice of words caused her to cringe for a moment, fuck she missed Terrance so much.

"Thanks for coming by...I'll let his parents know...they kind of left after it happened, but they'll be back sometime."

She shrugged her shoulders, bringing the silk shirt up to inhale the scent once more before she shifted and looked at Zach again. She remembered how frantic everyone was when they were looking for him, she remembered every moment from that terrible night.

"I can't imagine how you feel..." He said, zoning out.

"Truly, you have my condolences." He said, glancing at the ground. Zach never talked to Terrance much, but he knew he was a well liked kid.

"May I... come in?" He asked, glancing at the girl.

***

The platnium haired teen had hitchhiked his way to the town and found himself at the address of who he knew to be his birth father, he shook his head at the Smith mansion as he walked down the driveway.

Drew walked up to the dopr where he saw a sad looking girl and some guy.

"Damn, are you two my half siblings? Dear old Dad sure didn't shoot blanks did he?"

Tracy moved aside, and when she did she saw the other figure approaching.

"Who the hell are you?"

She moved past Zach, frowning at the sight of the platinum haired boy that was waltzing up her Terrance's driveway like he owned the damn place all of a sudden. She clutched the shirt in her hands tighter, her heart racing at the sight of someone she didn't know.

"Who the hell am I?" he asked back at the girl with a devilish smirk and a look of fiendishness in his eyes.

"Well honey, I'm the prodigal son."

Tracy tilted her head, "What the hell do you mean?" she asked him, almost in disbelief.

She was so far out of her own mind, hell the sanity level was deeply low right now because of what she had witnessed because of losing Terrance that night at the park. She didn't want to lose anyone else, hell she was just glad that Zach hadn't been killed that night when they were all looking for him.

"Oh my god, you're lucky you're pretty." He told the girl as he walked right on past her bumping her shoulder as he dropped his backpack.

"Well I guess nobody knew about me, see Im old man Smith's bastard, his dirty little secret." He said as he looked around the house.

"Where are they anyway, and oh, don't I have a brother around here too?"

At the question about his brother, she felt herself dropping to the ground as the images came flooding back to her.

"T-Terrance...i-is d-dead..." She stammered out.

She found herself clutching the shirt to her chest as she tried to calm her breathing. When had it started to get out of control?

Drew turned around as he heardthe girl hit the floor, raising an eyebrow and his eyes widened at the news that a brother he nevee knew was dead. he felt a pang of something he couldn't identify rush through his body, but quickly shook it off.

He plastered a fake grin on his face and pointed behind him towards the stairs.

"So Im guessing his room's free then?"

Tracy moved up instantly at that, reaching out to smack Drew across the face.

"No his room isn't free you asshole!" She exclaimed, narrowing her eyes as she pushed her red hair behind her shoulders and stood a little taller in her Gucci heels she was wearing, a gift from Terrance of course, hell everything she was wearing was a gift from him.

"You'll just have to wait until his parents come back from their holistic retreat, recovering from the loss." She said, moving to put herself in between Drew and the stairs. "And boy if you even try to get past me...well your in for a hell of a surprise. I almost blew the head off the last guy who tried."

Drew held his cheek after the girl slapped him and he slowly rubbed it as he turned to face her,

"You must have been his girlfriend huh?" he asked as he looked her up and down.

"Not bad at all." he smirked as he gave her a small nod.

"I'm Drew Watson, its. pleasure."

Tracy stared at him, lifting her head a bit higher as she watched him look her up and down.

"What Terrance and I were, was soulmates. He was my best friend, and yes we slept together, but that wasn't news to anyone in our group."

She shifted again, moving to pull Terrance's shirt against her chest a bit more.

"Tracy Lewis, not a pleasure. Given the circumstances."

he platnum punk scratched the back of his head as he looked at the ground.

"So uh, how'd he die?" he asled softly.

"Was it a car accident, overdose, suicide?" he was curious, he figured he'd guess the top killers of rich kids

Her eyes went wide, before they narrowed.

"He was murdered...the same way a whole bunch of our other friends were."

She knew that this was bad, hell it was worse than bad, the Brandon James killer was back in full swing, at least she was hoping she was wrong otherwise. She didn't want to go through all of this again, not like they had the past two times.

His eyes were wide and his nostrils were flared now.

"Wait, so he was murdered and his parents are on a fucking spa trip!?" he asked with a raised voice.

"God damn, thats fucked up."

"I'm here because...well I just am." Tracy said, shaking her head.

She looked at him a moment, "I was packing up some of his things...the stuff I knew he'd want me to keep."

Part of her wondered about something than, this was Terrance's brother after all, so maybe he would benefit from something of Terrance's as well right now. Hell he didn't even get to meet his brother, and now he was all the way here with not even family to meet him.

"Terrance had his motorcycle that he loved...I don't ride, well I didn't ride unless I was with him. But if you want it, I can give you the keys to it. And don't worry about Mr. Smith, I can tell him I wanted to do it for Terrance. He won't deny me that much."

Drew instantly smiled and nodded his head,

"Damn, five minutes here and i already have a motorcycle, sure beats riding the bus." he said as he walked closer to Tracy trying to get upstairs,

"So you wanna show me around?"

Tracy put her hand out, stopping him from going up the stairs.

"I think Mr. Smith should do that, if he lets you stay."

She shifted, keeping herself on the stairs and Drew not on them at this point.

Drew looked her up and down again, before backing up amd pointing to the couch in a distant room,

"I guess we can make out on the couch."

Tracy stared at him, this boy really thought he was getting a make out session?

"Yeah that will not be happening."

Drew walked over to the couch and plopped down, kicking his feet up on the table. he still couldn't believe this mansion, it was the polar opposite of his one bedroom apartment back home with his mom. It kind of felt like he got the shit end of the stick, but then again, he's still alive.

Tracy moved to the other couch, opposite the one from Drew. She set the silk shirt in her lap, tilting her head as she pushed some red hair behind her shoulders as she watched the other boy for a moment longer.

"Look, they should be back soon. I'm not sure really."

Granted she wasn't sure when the Smith's would return.

Drew gave a slow nid as he looked away, he could probably guess how the whole thing would go.

"It's probably gonna get ugly."

Tracy shrugged her shoulders some, watching him.

"Why come to Lakewood now? Why after everything?"

She wasn't sure what to expect of this new arrival, and right now she was afraid that something terrible was going to happen. She had this horrid gut feeling in her stomach, and she wanted to figure it all out as quickly as possible.

God she needed more pain pills and liquor.

He shrugged his shoulders and looked at the girl,

"Well when you find out the aon of a bitch who ditched you an your mom when she was pregnant is rich, you make it your mission to get your cut."

Tracy rolled her eyes, standing from the couch and moving to the hidden bar behind the closet. She opened it up, knowing that Mr. Smith wouldn't mind right now, and she pulled out a bottle and opened it before moving back onto the couch.

"Well you came at the wrong time."

She took a swig from the bottle.

"I guess so." He said as he watched her gulp down the alcohol, he lit a cigarette as he watched her, dumping dome ashes on the nice white couch.

"Don't disrespect the couch that Terrance picked out." She commented, shaking her head as she took another swig of the liquor bottle. "There is an ashtray on the table."

***

At the sisk of sounding gauche, grief counseling was the pits.

Fitz didn't even know why he bothered, really. Perhaps because Simone was sentimental. And he was fond of Simone. Not over fond of her, but...well, she knew how to fill a cocktail dress. But, session after session, time after time, hje could muster up no feeling at those meetings outside of stirring irritation, apathy and, God help him, gas.

How could he take solace in fond memories of times and climes with his son when he had none? How could he remember his favorite sayings when their only correspondence had been once weekly "Fuck you, Dad"'s? How could he reminds himself that a love once loved was never lost when there had been no love to begin with?

Ah, well, sentiment was passe.

He moved to unlock the door, only to find it was already unlocked.

"Damn it all, Rodriguez!" (pronounced Rod-ruh-gays; he knew it was incorrect. No, he didn't care.)

He strode into the entry hall, looking around imperiously, "Why don't you just rip the damned thing off its hinges while you're at it? I can have an open house, auction off ally my liq..."

He trailed off, a familiar scent of cigarette smoke meeting his nostrils, "...er."

"Hello?" he asked in carrying tones, irate, "Oh, for mercy's sake, there's no use hiding?"

Perhaps it was the raincoat murderer, here to take out the root as it had the stem. What a lark. What a novelty. Terrence continued to bless him even after the grave.

He strode up stairs, following the scent, "It's a queer sort of murderer who breaks open a carton of Pall Malls at the scene of the..."

He paused in the doorway. His son's doorway.

"Kitten?" he looked Tracy up and down, "What in the..."

And he saw the boy next to her and nearly felt his feet go out beneath him.

A boy so like and yet...it couldn't...

He tried to say something, but it sounded like more a sickly mewl than anything else.

Drew was about to say something when he heard the voice of an old man, a slight snobbish accent.

"Well hey dad, bet you never saw a ghost before."

Tracy stood up at the sight of Mr. Smith, moving over to hug him.

"I didn't know you were coming back so soon..."

She was overwhelmed with everything, and Drew's sudden appearance only made things more complicated it seemed. She shifted and pulled from the hug slightly as she glanced at the platinum haired boy once more.

"I really should be going, I came here to get some things that Terrance would have wanted me to have."

Part of her just wanted to get out of the awkward situation right now, and she needed to finish getting ready for the trip. "Besides this stupid retreat is still happening, and Terrance was going to pay for my hair and nails...so now I have to go get money from my parents."

She hated asking her parents, Terrance usually always paid for everything for her, it was one of their things.

This would be a fine time a blood vessel to burst. Ah! Was this sweat beading on his brow, or blood like in the more graphic depictions of Jesus Christ?

"D-d-Dad?" he spat, trying to look away from the obstinate, well-coiffed boy. Young man. Young man who looked so much like...

Well, yes, in the eyes, a little. Mostly in the eyes... He did look very much like...

But it couldn't...it...

He turned to Tracy, as if looking away from...him would make him go away, "Kitten. If this is supposed to be a joke, I must say I'm not chortling."

Neither was she, though. In fact, the only one who looked in a chortling spirit was him.

Just like Terrence then, he thought, wanting to vomit.

The young man scoffed and stood up walking towards the man,

"What, you're surprised to he haunted by your past you son of a bitch?"

Fitz raised his eyebrows, turning back toward the boy, "You're under the impression you mean something to me?"

Trying to ignore the quaver in his voice, he told him, "You're sorely mistaken."

Tracy stepped in front of Mr. Smith, almost protectively.

"Look Drew, he just lost Terrance...don't hassle him right now. Alright? Just give him a break..."

She moved than, brushing past Drew and bumping his shoulder slightly as she put the silk shirt in the box on Terrance's bed. She than closed the box and picked it up, turning to face the two males. She wasn't sure if leaving was the best option, but she had to finish getting ready.

"I have to go get my hair and nails done, and losing Terrance...was the hardest thing any of us in this room has gone through, Drew. So be respectful."

She turned her attention to Mr. Smith than, sighing lightly. "I've taken a few of Terrance's things, and I'll come by when I'm back from the retreat, which I can't believe we still have to go on."

Fitz looked from the boy (Drew? What was he? A Labrodor?) to Tracy. Lovely, devoted, disingenious Tracy, who had stolen his son's heart and most of his trust fund.

"Kitten, perhaps it is a good idea if you take off..." eyeing Drew cautiously, he rifled through his wallet (Corinthian leather, and emblazoned with his initials; his father's last cruel joke to him before that heart attack) and took a nebulous amount of bills (how to count them in his state?), which he gently pressed into Tracy's hand.

"Be well, dear heart. And...er...perhaps it's a good idea if you kept this midnight visit to yourself for the nonce, yes?"

He threw in another bill, not obviously, but she'd get the idea no doubt, "Cerulean is a lovely color on you. Offsets your hair,"

He patted her on the arm, (oh, rapture!) and urged her to the door, "Rest easy, dear."

"Oh I know i dont mean shit to you, but hey maye not having you as a father is the reason im still alive, your parenting didn't seem to help the other son." Drew was going for blood, venom spewing from his lips.

Tracy put the bills into her purse, nodding her head as she glanced between the two.

"Have a good night, Mr. Smith."

She turned one last time to look at Drew, shaking her head.

"Don't be so cruel to him."

And with that, she was down the stairs and out the front door.

"Father?" he whirled on his heels, "What kind of cockamamie devilry do you think you're playing at? I had one son, one benighted, spoiled, ungrateful son, and he's dead now, gone, off to pasture! Whatever tomfool game you're driving at, I want no part in it!"

"C'mon, you know exactly what I'm talking about and you know who I am." He told the older male with a look of disdain.

"Oh yeah, thats a great way to talk about your dead child by the way." God damnit why eas he even here, this cold hearted bastard didn't deserve to know of his existence.

Fitz cocked an eyebrow, "If you knew him, you'd feel the same."

Still, he forced himself to maintain some veneer of a composure, "Come," and he started down the hall toward the study, going for the crystal decanter on the sideboard.

"If you intend to belabor me with some impassioned sob story of your youth, you can at least indulge me a drink in my own home," he poured out some cognac, turning back to Drew, "I don't suppose you partake?"

"I don't drink, I like to keep a sober mind at all times." he said as he followed the man, looking him up and down. was this really man supposed to be his father? Hell, it sounded like Terrance had it worse off.

"A clouded mind is a wasted opportunity."

"And you still think you're my son?" Fitz scoffed, quaffing half his glass in one go and motioning toward a pair of wing-backed armchairs nearest the hearth, sitting into one of them himself.

"Well? You have a claim to stake. Stake it."

It was unsettling, looking at him now. Almost alien, really. The more he looked, the closer he looked, even in this dim light, with all these shadows lingering in the corners...the more he looked like Terrence. And, beyond that, the more he looked like...

"Your mother," he said, "Does she know you're here? Or am I to believe I somehow sputtered you out myself?"

Look, all my mother knows is that I left for school and didn't come back, you remember her?" He asked with a condescending tone in his voice.

"Her name was Sadie Watson, she went to UCLA?" He told him as he stared hik down.

"I don't want anything from you, I want you to write a check for twenty grand to my mother, I'm not going back there so none of it will go to me, I just want my mom to get a fraction of the life she deserves."

Fitz looked up from the glass, raising one eyebrow slowly, but steadily.

That explains the hair.

Sadie's hair... Swingback Sadie, UCLA, Class of '03.

"Sadie Watson..." he said softly, surprised to find he had air left in his lungs to manage speech, "Lovely girl. Studying Philosophy, Ancient and Modern, as I recall."

He allowed a sardonic chuckle, recalling a few torrid evenings at a certain disreputable establishment on a musty street corner, "Yes, I remember her very well..."

He looked back at Drew, "And Sadie told you I was your father, did she? And here you are...coming to collect..." he considered, "17 years of child support? 16? You can't possibly be older than 18, or else she's starving you.

"Sixteen, and yeah she did, but she never wanted your money, but she deserves it, having to take a shit job to take care of her and the kid you deserted."

He looked at the ground, then back at the man, he couldn't believe this was how he had to meet his father.

"Im nit asking for anything, just that you make it up to her, give her enough money to be able to look for a job she deserves.

Fitz scoffed darkly, "You want to hear stories about your mother, Drew?" he enunciated the name crudely, "I knew her for all of five minutes on a drunken lark in a place where 'protected sex' meant keeping your eyes closed for fifteen minutes and hoping for the best."

He leaned back in the chair, "And as far as those wild college days are concerned, I'm afraid if you think I'm the only one to have had the pleasure of Swingin' With Sadie, you are sorely mistaken."

Quote from ThePlotMurderer on June 23, 2024, 12:21 pm

Brooke's Room

"Let's Talk About Sex"

Stavo couldn't help it, he allowed a small smirk to tug at the corner of his mouth.

The alcohol was evident, he could quite literally taste it as he pressed his lips into hers, savoring every second.

"Brooke..." He mumbled, but he was too drunk to even speak. Everyone was handling the situation in different ways, but Brooke and Stavo preferred to drink their emotions away.

After all, the killer was back. What else did they have to live for, anyone could be next.

"That's my name," she replied, taking a tentative bite of his ear (they should made that aftershave edible, Jesus), "Wear it out all you damn well please."

Maybe she was imagining it, but there was a certain reticence to him. Usually, Stavo made no bones about boning. One of the reasons she liked him so much.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

"I-.... I don't wanna talk abo..." Stavo said, pausing from all the kisses.

His thoughts mixed with alcohol wasn't the best idea. He put on a tough mask, but underneath it all, he was scared. But to hell if he'd let Brooke see that, he had to he her rock, she NEEDED him. Right? Or was it the other way around?

"It's all fucked..." He said, referring to everything that had happened.

Everyone seemed to forget a former student passed away not too long ago, and it was concerning.

Brooke leaned back, sighing deeply. She should've figured the reckoning was gonna come eventually.

Wordlessly, she crossed over to the radio, switching it off. She collected her wrap from the edge of the futon and pulled it on over her shoulders, tying the sash about her waist.

"Yes," she told him, "Yeah, it is."

She wasn't sure if she should yell at Stavo or pull him into an embrace. As much as she resented being reminded of the aforementioned fucked up-ness of the world around her, it was also a relief to be able to acknowledge it.

She'd tried, piece by piece, to write off what happened to Terrance that night as a one-off bit of insanity. Maybe whoever had been shooting for a third Ghostface go-around had gotten cold feet, or maybe the sick bastard had only wanted to off the pretty emo kid and donned the B.J. mask to throw off suspicion. Wasn't like poor Terry had been the easiest guy to like.

But, still, every day that went by with no answers, no indications of the face behind this newest mask only left her more uneasy. As though the whole thing would be more paltable if it were murder after murder like the good ole days.

"I'm sorry," she told him, "Write that down, if you've gotta, I'm not about to repeat it, and the planet will align before I say it again. I just..." she shrugged, "I know sex isn't a healthy solution to all life's problems. But neither is eating, and there are fat people everywhere. This burns calories at least."

Sex, with you?" He asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Is that even a question?" He asked, a soft smile appeared out of the blue. This girl could cheer him up in an instant, and he'd never take that for granted.

"You're something else, Brooke Maddox..." He proclaimed, eyeing her.

"I am," she told him, "So are you. On an existential level, we all are something else, every second of every day we become somebody new."

She shrugged, "Or some pretty B.S like that," she looked over her shoulder, moving to the tiny window that looked out onto the lake.

"Stavo…" she said softly, not turning around to him, "Do you ever wanna just burn your house down and drive into the night, blasting Lana del Rey?"

Quote from ThePlotMurderer on June 23, 2024, 12:22 pm

Terrance's Grave

"Due to the Dead"

Ryan stood looking down at Terrance's head stone, he didn't know the kid super well but he was still human...a victim. Ryan stood with a blank stare almost as he puffed on a cigarette, dark blue jeans on with a black leather jacket zipped all the way to his neck as the temperature dropped and it was only getting colder these days.

"I don't think you were a bad person bro..." Ryan said aloud, talking to no one. He felt bad, not enough to cry or anything but Terrance was someone he knew, a living human being who was just murdered for no reason. "Hella don't think he deserved to die...not by some sick freak."

Ryan knelt down and read Terrance headstone before grabbing a bottle of beer he placed on the ground. He took a sip of his beer before pouring a bit out on the ground, "Hope your the last to die over this crazy shit." Ryan sighed before downing the rest of his beer tossing the bottle by a tree and wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his black leather jacket.

He went back to his 1969 impala, for a split second he thought he heard a noise come from the distance a little ways and he reached for his gun hiding in the back waist belt of his pants. Ryan turned around and scoped out the area for about a minute before getting in his car and driving off away from the grave yard, flicking his cigarette out the window as he left.

Quote from ThePlotMurderer on June 23, 2024, 12:23 pm

"All the time, Brooke," Stavo said, looking out the window as well.

"What if we just ran off to New York?"

Quote from ThePlotMurderer on June 23, 2024, 12:24 pm

Brooke looked over her shoulder at him, framed in the shadows, her very own stony sentinel. Branson had been charming, Jake had been funny...

Stavo was rarely either of those things, never at the same time. But he was comforting, and he anchored her when she felt herself drifting away in the O-zone. And there was something to be said for that.

But then there were moments like this...

"Flights of fancy," she chuckled, reaching over her shoulder to stroke his chin, the roughness of new growth there, "Let's ride that train for a bit. Say we got our things together and blew this joint, made off for the big city," she shrugged, "What next? C'mon, you like your comics...You know there's gotta be a What's next? if anyone's gonna buy the next issue."

She entertained the fleeting fantasy of her and Stavo kicking back in some Manhattan loft smaller than her bedroom and worth more than even she could afford in rent. Maybe she'd model the way Seth had always suggested she could. She could sit for Stavo's paintings, sell them at one of those kiosks outside the Met...

Or they could moonlight in clubs. Her crooning along to throaty, dreamy ballads while he played a tambourine or something.

"Well? What next?"

Quote from ThePlotMurderer on June 23, 2024, 12:25 pm

Drew raised both his brows, his nostrils flaring, and his upper lip twitching. He wasn't going to hurt this man, at least he hoped. Although, his father had no idea how close he was cutting it with these comments.

"Look, what my mom was like in the past has nothing to do with me, or who she is now."

Quote from ThePlotMurderer on June 23, 2024, 12:26 pm

"Well, I think I've done everything I can with Brandon James," Stavo began, smiling.

"So what if we did a comedy graphic novel? Dark comedy of course."

With the main characters based on themselves.

Quote from ThePlotMurderer on June 23, 2024, 12:26 pm

"Fine!" Fitz through both arms into the air, getting to his feet, "You want to be my son? Very well!"

He drew to his full height, the cognac burning in his throat, inflaming him as he spread his arms wide, "Welcome to the family! You're the last in a long line of drunks, drones, and degenerates. I'm sure you'll feel right at home."

He whirled on his heel, "You want what you're due, then? That's it? My...recompense for some drunken accident nobody would any sense would ever choose to remember. Tell me, then...you claim to be my blood. We're negotiators in this family..."

He cocked an eyebrow, "Negotiate. How much is your life worth? Your mother's? Your future? Let's see those cogs turning."

Quote from ThePlotMurderer on June 23, 2024, 12:27 pm

"So we're dropping the metaphor?"

Brooke felt her smile slip, "Fine. Whatever. It was depressing anyway."

She turned to him, "You know, I hear comedy requires a sense of humor," she winked, "Might wanna collab with Noah for that one."

Quote from ThePlotMurderer on June 23, 2024, 12:28 pm

Stavo sighed, and puled her into a backwards hug.

"I'm sorry, baby."

Quote from ThePlotMurderer on June 23, 2024, 12:30 pm

Drew was shocked by the sudden turn this took and clicked his teeth as he slightly bent over the desk and began drawing up a contract. He was going to make sure that everything was set in stone and there was no way out. His biggest concern was making sure his mother got the money she deserves.

"So look, twenty thousand dollars and I will never bother you again."

Quote from ThePlotMurderer on June 23, 2024, 12:31 pm

"Sorry?" she wouldn't deny the little shiver she got when he called her 'baby'. It had been odd at first. Jake had called her baby but, of course, Stavo wouldn't have known. He'd only come after Jake had made that most final exit.

It was a nice thing to be called by a pet name. Some girls might find it infantile. Hell, she would if she heard it from certain men...

But when Stavo said it he meant it. He said it like she meant everything to him, like he lived only to see her happy.

Once upon a time, Brooke would've been thrilled at the thought. She wasn't so sure now.

"What do you have to be sorry about? You know me, head full of hot air, mouth that expels it into space, brain that doesn't think till it's too late," she turned to him, "Thank God for the rest of me."

Quote from ThePlotMurderer on June 23, 2024, 12:31 pm

"Brooke, you are probably one of the smartest women I know," Stavo kissed her head.

"Me? I'm lucky to even know you."

Quote from ThePlotMurderer on June 23, 2024, 12:31 pm

Fitz observed, unable to hide a wry smile as the boy actually began writing on his stationary. Fitz briefly wondered if he knew legal jargon. Maybe Sadie had ended up going for the bar after all.

Then again, if that were the case, she likely wouldn't have scraped public defender, or why was this whelp here?

"$20,000?" he smirked, "A modest assessment. A more opportunistic churl might've gone for six figures. Still...money's money, and young people are so rarely aware of what it's worth."

He heaved a sigh, "And...what do you intend to do with this $20,000?"

He knew very well what Terrence would've done with twenty grand. Spent it on bikes and music and vaguely effemenite fashion. And, of course, his requisite mostly-chaste concubine.

Quote from ThePlotMurderer on June 23, 2024, 12:32 pm

"I know exactly what twenty thousand is worth, it's enough for my mom to pay the bills while she takes the bar." He told the man and turned towards him, crossing his arms and shaking his head.

"I'm not gonna touch it, I work for my money." He told the man as he flipped his hair out of his eyes.

Quote from ThePlotMurderer on June 23, 2024, 12:33 pm

Brooke laughed, "Flattery will get you everywhere, Stavo."

She looked him up and down, "But let's not go talking about whose lucky to have whom and who should deserve whoever... That suggests the existence of some invisible standard and...well..."

There was a lot she might've said, more she was reluctant to. Her entire life she'd been weighing herself on standards. You don't have to like Nina, but she's got the clout and it's eat or get eaten around here; you don't have to meet with Seth, but he makes you feel like an adult and what other girls have that, huh?; you don't have to tell Jake you love him, never tell him that, telling someone you love them gets their heads all swelled and then they start thinking you need them and then you're not in charge anymore, you've given it up, you've surrendered, never, ever, ever, tell any man that you...

"...I'm glad you're here, Stavo," she said softly, "Whatever does come next."

She kissed him lightly, feeling a sadness knot in her stomach that she didn't quite understand.

***

"Do you?" he cocked an eyebrow.

He wondered if that was a jab at him. Could the boy know his reputation? He didn't seem like the type to read Wall Street financials and make assumptions about the solvency of hard candy companies.

Still, it was well known in the higher circles that Fitz had never been very good at managing Smith's Sweeties. He'd more or less handed off control of the company the others on the board. Cue accusations of impotency from the press.

As if he wasn't being called impotent enough everywhere else. Still, he had two sons where he'd thought there'd be one, so he couldn't be as impotent as all that.

"And, tell me...what kind of work do you do?"

Quote from ThePlotMurderer on June 23, 2024, 12:33 pm

"I take college exams for people, it was hard to get any work at first being a sixteen year old in high school, but I worked hard to build up my reputation for success." He shrugged his shoulders as he explained.

"I figure I have an IQ of 170 so I might as well use it to make some money." He explained to his father. His father had worked hard in his life, he deserved to not have to work anymore, granted there were other rumors much worse.

Quote from ThePlotMurderer on June 23, 2024, 12:34 pm

"You..." If Fitz still had a hairline, his eyebrows would've vanished into it.

"That's a risky game you're playing. Off the top of my head...fraud, black market solicitation and intellectual prostitution."

He poured another glass of cognac, "Perhaps you are my son."

He whirled around on his heel, holding up his fountain pen, a family heirloom: sterling silver with silver filigree. He positioned the ink biro over the makeshift contract (he had very neat handwriting too; he must get that from Sadie, the rich had no use for penmanship).

What are you doing? He thought to himself, This paper migfht as well be a napkin from a McDonald's drive thru! There's no seal of writ, no witnesses...this is about as official as Simone's 'marriage' to that Portuguese gardener.

Was he really about to sign off $20,000 more than he could afford (the Smiths were flush but not that flush, not with the company's recent trouble and Terrence's funeral expenses on top of them) to some silver-haired...admittedly intelligent...brat he'd fathered off a girl he hadn't thought twice about until fifteen minutes ago?

Outrageous! Farcical. What kind of a man...

Fitz stopped that thought. He knew what kind of man he was. Simone reminded him of it on a daily basis. Terrence had too. Now this one was sitting here, ready to take up the mantel.

He was everybody's patsy. Loathed by all, but not taken seriously enough to be a nemesis.

Perhaps he could prove some people wrong.

"Just a moment," he set the pen down, "You expect me to enter into a deal with you with no gain for myself? You drop by, pillage the family coffers...that's what it is, when you look past the sentiment, nobody really has a right to any money they didn't earn themselves...and leave?"

He chuckled, "You pretty brat, I'm not that easy."

He folded his arms, "You want to play ball, I'll need something in return."

Quote from ThePlotMurderer on June 23, 2024, 12:34 pm

"Did you call me pretty?" Drew scoffed and shook his head. "Gay." He added under his breath, he wasn't homophobic, hell he attends pride every year, but he wasn't down with people telling him what to say so he didn't subscribe with being pc.

"I mean I assumed never seeing me again was your gain, but what were you thinking as your gain?"

Quote from ThePlotMurderer on June 23, 2024, 12:35 pm

Late Night Chit Chat

Deanna wasn't sure if this was alright or not, but after her brothers call she had snuck out of the house, alright not snuck she could get out as easy as she wanted too. And she had made her way to Foster's place, grabbing a rock and chucking it towards the boys window. "Foster! You up?" She called into the night, chucking another rock at the window.

Quote from ThePlotMurderer on June 23, 2024, 12:36 pm

"Gay...I..."

Great. Make that two sons who'd insinuated he was a homosexual. Quite a lark since one wore nail polish and this one was done up like the dragon queen from Game of Thrones.

"That's besides the point."

He paused, realizing how that sounded.

"I am not gay."

Not the point.

"Ach!"

That was better. Clearing his throat, he pressed on, "I am expected to attend a...well, they call it a retreat but it sounds more like a corporate team-building exercise...on behalf of my son's murder. They'll be...remembering him and singing songs and making worry beads and other such nonsense, I don't doubt. My presence is expected."

The letter had, at least, been well written. Signed by the social worker, some psychologist he'd never heard of. Fitz supposed the lickspittle who'd been serving as guidance counselor had either been fired or committed sepukku the night Terrance died. All the same to him.

"They'd like me to...speak to all Terrence's friends and loved ones. Somehow, this is supposed to make me feel better."

He looked Drew over, "Frankly, I could never really see Terrence as my son. He insisted on carrying himself so differently, at overriding everything I asked. He existed to mock me. But then...sometimes I'm not sure if I was made for this decaying family manse anyway..." he indicated the dark, gloomy house around them.

"Perhaps we did have that in common. We never quite felt part of the family."

He cleared his throat, "You say you're my son? You want to be my son, to take your share of the family legacy? Then suffer through this little retreat with me. Listen to them all describe your brother as if he were God's great gift to the earth. Perhaps we'll both learn something about him."

He shrugged, "You'll at least learn what it is to be a Smith. Suffering in silence."

Quote from ThePlotMurderer on June 23, 2024, 12:36 pm

Noah

Noah was reading the newspaper obituary for Terrance when all of a sudden a rock shatters his window. He runs over to the broken window and looks down seeing Deanna,

"What the Fuck?"

Quote from ThePlotMurderer on June 23, 2024, 12:36 pm

Deanna

"Foster we need to talk, now." Deanna said, looking up at him as she nodded her head. "Preferably not out here in the open, can I come up? Its kind of important."

Quote from ThePlotMurderer on June 23, 2024, 12:37 pm

Noah

He sighed and just nodded throwing down a rope ladder he uses when Jamie or Audrey come over.

"You're paying for my window."

___________________

Drew

Drew sighed and rolled his eyes, he really doesn't want to spend the weekend listening to people he doesn't know talk about somebody he doesn't care about.

"So you plan to torture me then? Fine."