The One That Got Away

At three in the morning, most of the people in New York City were asleep, nestled safely in their beds-- at least the sane ones were. Those who knew better realized that the city truly came alive after midnight. Making his way up the stairs in her building was uneventful, but the familiar reek of spilled booze and stale urine hung in the air. It wasn't much different than the place he kept under a different name just a few blocks away that his loving and obsessive wife didn't know about. As he pushed out into the hallway, checking the wrinkled scrap of paper for the fifth time just to satisfy his own obsessive urges, he pulled in a deep breath. The cigarette was between his lips a second later, already lit before he took that first step towards her door.

And before he had time to exhale that first drag, Jackson's fist was pounding against the wood.

Maybe she's already left for Korea. Did you think of that before you jumped in the car and came tearing off half-cocked?

He probably would've stopped thumping fist against wood and gone away if he hadn't heard noises inside. Then a deadbolt scraped and the door jolted to a stop inches after it got going. One of those metal disc things. One eye appeared. "Oh. Hey. Sorry, thought you were the neighbor banging on the wall again. He doesn't like me much."

The door shut abruptly then swung open all the way, Gia walking away without formal introduction to use one bare foot to shift everything off the end of the couch-- mostly an assortment of spray paint cans, soda bottles, and dismantled pieces of fashion dolls. Some faint smell of melted plastic lingered, window cracked to air it out. "Sorry, didn't expect... or... did you callorsomething?" It wasn't an accusation; she stood in front of the cluttered coffee table snapping her fingers in attempt to fire up some synapses.

"Didn't." He replied, taking a few steps into the apartment, one eyebrow quirking as he surveyed the decor. "Nice place." He kicked the door shut behind him, taking another drag off his cigarette. There didn't seem to be any need to put it out, since he could smell the chemicals in the air.

"Sorry, wasn't expecting. I'm having one of those slow days, though..." She looked at his cigarette for a moment, then reached in a drawer and dug around, plonking the bottom half of a bronze censer on the coffee table. "The, uh, kids down the hall keep leaving their fucking toys laying out and I got tired of kicking them around, so I was seeing if I could fuse 'em together Human Centipede style and put 'em back out there. It's not working too well. But I think you could get high off the fumes if you could stand the stink. It was really bad about fifteen minutes ago..." She scratched the back of her head, a nervous fidget maybe. "You thinking thoughts about Korea, or did you just wanna piss off your old lady?" Which was apparently a thoroughly amusing thought.

"Both." He shrugged, flopping on her sofa and kicking his booted feet up on the table as though he owned the place. Plucking the cancer stick from between his lips, he pointed it at her, "second thought: maybe not so much the first. Trying not to think about it as long as I can. Big... y'know? Don't want to fuck it up." His dark eyes bored into hers, almost as if daring her to break eye contact, or order him to get his feet off her furniture.

She glanced away from the eye contact long enough to take in the feet, then flopped down on another cushion of the couch. If there was concern for any city grime from his shoes on this furniture that had probably been picked out by Marla Singer, it wasn't showing. When she did look him in the eye again, there wasn't any backstepping or hesitation there. It was almost a glare. "Why? Why do you pretend? With the fishwife? Why exactly do you... bother?"

He laughed, and the sound was surprising to his ears. It didn't sound as forced as usual, almost as if he was at ease in this place, with this slightly deranged woman. "Found it easier to pretend than to just be," he said with a slightly self-deprecating smile on his lips. Crushing out his cigarette in the provided makeshift ashtray was enough distraction that he could mentally sidestep the gravity of the question. "Left alone, I'm a bit less... stable. Like napalm, or..." he shrugged, "used to keep them as a buffer against the other shit. The media. The fucking vultures in the locker rooms. She's not the first. Been married four times now. Never lasts."

She took a moment to just glare at him wonky-eyed, then sighed and rolled her eyes. "I get that. I do. In a way. Because if I didn't schedule myself shit to do and like... make... people-time, I'd get lost in here for weeks. I've done it. And get ravenously fucking bored. And..." The words she didn't say were 'a hold on reality', but... yes. "But so help me that... it woulda never gotten to a marriage because I'd have choked that kind of shrew bitch out on the first date, right. Maybe it's a difference in... type?"

"I like them needy... at first." He sighed, shaking his head, "and then it gets tedious. I'm attracted to the broken ones. The fucked up ones who pretend at being," he air-quoted the next word, "‘wrestlers' when they're barely above ring rats. Been a long game of cat and mouse with this one. Been fucking her and leaving her since she was eighteen. She always comes back for more, and that gets me off more than you could believe." Shifting position, he turned slightly towards her, almost as if trying to gauge her reaction to the words he was filling the silence with. "Why'd you ask? Got some burning need to dig your fingers into this fucked up mass of neurons in hopes of... what, exactly?"

Her eyes went wider, making her look surprised at having the thing turned back on her. "Because..." her fingers laced together in front of her, "you have some of my fucked-up and it's fair trade? Not really. Because you're one of us people who operates differently and I want to understand, and with people like... fuck... your fishwife, I don't care, and you got my attention the other day, and... well... haven't seen a version of 'operating differently' that's as close to home before." She rolled her eyes at herself and shook her head slightly. "That sounds completely egocentric, doesn't it."

He nodded, but said nothing for a long moment, studying her. "The less wordy version of what you just said comes off something like this in my head: you dig me." He said it without any sort of pride or underlying emotion. To him it was a foregone conclusion that was just waiting to be said aloud. "Which is cool, because I'm intrigued... interested... whatever." He waved his hand, failing to find the right level of glib words to downplay his attraction. "Next thing you know we'll be whispering on a train and I'll be paying you to kill my wife."

A crease formed down the middle of her forehead. "You could probably do that yourself. But it'd be conspicuous." The reference, or that it was a reference, had flown over her head.

"Mostly facetious," he muttered, "was trying to make a joke. Strangers On A Train. An old movie... think it was Hitchcock." He shrugged, falling silent again, as though he could tell she had more she wanted to say.

Her mouth dropped open and she snapped her fingers, smacked her forehead with her palm. "Shoulda known that." That he might not actually want his wife dead... not occurring. "I'm... I dig. It's... maybe the violence. It's the violence. Like... doesn't leave this room, but... Ives, he does the headfuck thing, and I get it but I don't get it because that's... it. That's the whole agenda. This, you, I want to have lots of long gory conversations and... I don't even know." Double facepalm. "I'll shut up someday. Fucking... tell me to shut up sometime, jeez."

"Not going to do that." He tried to keep the smile off his face, trying not to laugh. Her awkwardness was like she was pulling a page from his book. "And you wonder why I like to pretend... easier than this whole ‘bonding' thing, no? Fuckin' words and gestures, and I'm trying to read your poker face to find out if there's an agenda." He cocked his head, studying her, "and I'm trying to keep my hands to myself right now. Shoulda had a drink... or six... before I came."

"I'd get up and find the alcohol but if that went down, I'd either get even more awkward or really fake on you." Her hands pressed her temples hard, then dropped away and she locked eyes with him again. "Hi. This is confusing. You are confusing me. I have to figure out the puzzle. That probably sounds like a really fun mindgame to you. I really don't mind you laughing at me about it. Whiskey?"

"Yeah," he nodded almost gratefully, "whatever you have. And no, I'm not trying to confuse you... mindfuckery's good when it's against the other sweaty-grapply fucks... but not... y'know, when you're trying to have a conversation with a," there was a slight hesitation, "friend."

"Friend." She blinked rapidly at that, then without commenting on it crossed the room. She stuck her arm through a hole in the drywall, shoulder at an upcurve, and... passed a whiskey bottle through the wall. "Something tells me a guy like you doesn't give a shit about chasers or glasses? I've got 'em." When in doubt, get plastered?

"No lip herp here," he quipped, favoring her with a crooked grin, "haven't fucked any dirty bitches in a while so..."

Gia snickered. "The liquor would probably kill it anyway." She took a long drink on the way over, then slid the bottle of Jameson on the empty space left on the table. "I was trying to pick a fight. I won't deny. I don't even know what I'm saying when I get going."

"No harm. Honestly, I found it hilarious. Even better when the rockstars took offense thinking it was about them." He leaned forward and picked up the bottle, taking a long swallow. It burned like hell on the way down. The cheap shit always did. "She's jealous of you." He said it without looking over at her, "probably already measuring you up, and finding herself lacking. That's what she does. Fuckin' inferiority complex or somesuchshit. Can't be bothered to keep track of her fuckin' moods anymore." He proffered the bottle at her, but didn't relinquish it. "Truth or dare? Isn't that what's supposed to happen when two nervous freaks are sitting around drinking like this?"

She reached out for the bottle and had to tug at it to take it from him. It earned him a glare, but not a serious one. This was still a playfight, a feeling out, and she thought it was mutual. And truth or dare was daunting. "So let her keep measuring. It's just as sweet when they pick out their own shitty flaws without you even needing to say it. Okay, maybe not, but almost." Longer swallow. Like it was a contest on who could stand the burn the longest, or who'd get drunk the fastest-- that answer was easily her, she wasn't unrealistic enough to miss that size made a difference at this. "I already hate her, and not because she's your wife. I don't understand her and I don't really want to. I don't know why she'd be jealous of me, because my life is nothing like what she'd say she wanted in life. And her life is my screaming nightmare. If it's attention... that's fucking stupid?"

The bottle was pulled from her grasp and he dutifully took another chug, "never said she was smart... just loyal. I give her what I can, y'know? Money. A house. Time. Just... nothing real. It's all window-dressing. Surface shit. The me that's in here," he tapped his temple, and then dropped his hand to his chest over his heart, "that guy doesn't give a shit one way or the other if she lives or dies. It's duty. Obligation, y'know? She's a fuckin' mannequin at best. I read this thing online that said when a dude becomes a father he stops producing as much testosterone... like the body turns on you and makes you into some pussy who wants to stay at home. That never happened to me. Guess I'm a special sort of asshole. Or maybe I just don't connect with her on that level. Prob'ly never did."

Gia chuckled, this really quiet sound, but it went all the way to her eyes. "Science. Science says I should be hankerin' for peen I can get to stay around and raise a kid with me, or at least peen that can knock me up period, and I should have some reaction to a kid crying that isn't throwing heavy objects at them or screaming back in their scrunchy, soggy, selfish little faces. There is no scientific reason for why I want what I want, or why gay people want what they want, or why all kinds of people... completely ruin their lives because of 'weird' sexual urges they try to hide for years. There are just things that don't come down to a set of species-prolonging urges." She grabbed at the bottle, and he didn't let go this time, so she grabbed his wrist and guided the bottle, took her drink with him still attached, then let go.

"These animal urges... encoded in our lizard brains. Fighting. Fucking. It's not to create order from chaos, or to solve world conflict. It's... primordial. I want to hurt people because it makes me feel powerful. I'm addicted to that rush. I want to fuck because I'm horny. Not because I want to fill some order for some slobbering child-beast." He lifted the bottle to his lips, but didn't drink, "God, the shit that comes out of my mouth when I'm trying to impress. Feel like I'm running for office, campaigning. Did I make a good impression? You wanna hear more of the hundred and one excuses that let to my professional wrestling career?" More liquor spilled down his throat, some missing his mouth and dribbling over his chin. "G... you're melting my brain in ways that aren't at all unappealing."

Her fingers caught the dribble of liquor, swiping it all the way up his neck and into her mouth. It was weirdly flirtatious and weirdly not all at the same time, like a dog catching something you dropped on the kitchen floor. "Alcohol abuse. What does your brain look like when it melts? Is it like nacho cheese? Why do I have this urge to go steal Nerf guns and shoot them at every parked car I see that looks like it probably has an alarm on it? Do they even make Nerf guns anymore?" She tugged the bottle, and then carefully unwound each of his fingers until she could take it. "You're asking me if you're making an impression when I'm acting like some chick in junior high over here. Or I was. Alcohol is great."

"Truth serum." He nodded sagely, "sometimes all you need is a push or a..." he failed to pull up the word from his scrambled thoughts, "something to hide behind. Makes it easier. Connections."

"Connections. With 'friends'. How... cozy." It wasn't really sarcastic. Amused, but not sarcastic. Drunkenly amused. "Bonding. We should do stuff. Gah, that sounded funny. Go do stuff." She sat the bottle down, got up... and hit the floor like a sack of potatoes.

Que sera, sera.

---

"Brad? There ain't no mistake. It's empty," the blonde's voice was sharp as nails on a chalkboard, her hand like ice as it touched his cheek. "We went through all the tapes. Three an' a half months worth-"

"That's not possible," he growled, shaking his head, "she's got to be somewhere. People don't just vanish. They don't just sweep into a life, jab a stick into your head, stir everything around and then just fuckin' disappear. She-"

"Jax, listen. There's a stack of junk mail piling up. The super said the rent ain't been paid since October. She's gone."

He bowed his head, saying nothing. It was too damn hard to lie to himself, let alone her. It just required a level of energy he didn't possess. "Fuck, alright. Whatever. Tell him to take down the cameras. Fuckin' waste of time."

Taking in a deep breath, she slowly exhaled. The smell of exhaust, trash, booze and cigarette smoke filled her nostrils-- the scent of New York City. She watched as he moved closer to the edge, peering down into the street as though he was looking for something. Fear was in her voice as she spoke sharply to him as he balanced on the edge, "Jax?! What are you doing?"

"Having a cigarette, what the fuck's it look like?" His eyes were bloodshot as they swiveled to hers, watery as though he'd been crying recently. She chalked it up to sleeplessness. As though to punctuate the statement, he drew deeply on the cigarette between his fingers, exhaling through his nose.

The words were trite, and she shook her head gently. "I see that, sugar. I was just making sure you were..." she slipped up beside him, trying to ignore the vertigo she felt this close to the edge. Her hand was cold as it slipped into his, as cold as death as she tugged at him, desperate to get off the damned roof. There was something in his body language, something that raised the hackles on her neck. She shivered, chilled as the icy wind pushed her against him in a way that wasn't wholly unwelcome. "I don't like seein' you like this," she murmured, tossing her head to clear the tangled hair from her vision.

"Then don't fuckin' look," he growled around the cigarette clamped between his teeth. "I was really into her, Shirl. She was something else. We clicked… y'know? And now she's just… gone." God, how fucking trite. He was trying to explain his new obsession-- was it an obsession?

"You liked her, didn't you?" Shirlea stared up at him with those stupid cow eyes, all full of sympathy. It made him want to bury his fist in her face.

"Liked her? I dunno… it was… nice. Uncomplicated." He shrugged, "not like the shit with Ryann, y'know? Always have to pander to her. Tell her that she's pretty an' special. Too much work and it drains, you know?" The definition of surreal-- explaining what he'd dubbed The Fall Obsession to the girl who'd been his old one way back when. It didn't help that Shirlea, while looking like she'd just stepped out of a porno, was still dumber than a bag of rocks. The thing was, he knew he could tell her anything that crossed his mind, and she would keep it to herself. She knew better than to run around blabbing shit on the Internet, or flapping her gums to reporters. He'd known her for years, and the comfort level was there, always there.

The wind calmed itself after raging against them, silenced like a child that had grown weary of a tantrum. The shadows of night pressed against them, blanketing the early morning hours with velvety darkness and frosty air. Her breath steamed from her nostrils and mouth as she looked up at him. "C'mon," she whined, impatience flickering in those ice blue eyes that stared up at him, "I'm freezin'."

"Then go back inside." He mumbled, shuffling his feet against the gravel before taking another drag off his cancer stick. "I'll be alright up here a bit longer. Just need to do some thinking." The sarcasm oozed into the last sentence, making it clear that he was using that as an excuse. "Can't afford to be fucking around here… need to forget about Gia. Need to… do a whole lot of shit."

He wobbled, almost like he was about to fall forward. She gasped and caught his arm, catching his smirk as he turned away from her.

"Jax," the way she said his name made him stiffen. He didn't look at her because he knew what he would see on her face-- pity. It was always the same when something ended. He came crawling back here and fucked her until she was raw. She never protested. "I understa-"

"Don't." He snapped the word, cutting her off as he jerked away from her. "You start with that lovey-dovey fuckin' feelings shit and I'll throw you off the goddamned roof." The way he said the words made it clear that they were not an idle threat.

"I wasn't-"

"You were." His hand flashed through the air, gripping her cheeks hard. "She's dead, alright? There is no such person as…" he hesitated before saying her name, "Gia Van Zant. Alright? So don't fucking mention her ever again. It's just back to happily-ever-after for me an' the fishwife, same as it ever was." He pulled a face at Gia's word dropping from his lips. "Just once, do yourself a favor and drop it." His fingers dug into her wrist and he dragged her back towards the door. She stumbled, falling at his feet, scraping up her bare knees and her palms. He reached down, pulling her up by the arm. "Just get the fuck away from me," he growled, shoving her towards the stairs with a casual push.

The door slammed behind her, silencing her sobs before they started. He felt nothing as he stared into the dark heart of New York City, as if he looked long enough, or hard enough, he could find her. "Where the fuck are you?" He whispered, shaking his head as he flicked his cigarette off into the unknown.

The night had nothing so say. Like usual.