Believe

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Saturday, April 25, 2009
…somewhere in the air

The ritual never really changed. Just the timing. Sometime between take-off and landing the crushing claustrophobia began. Sometime after the panic built up to a fever pitch, he'd be forced to either dope himself up on a cocktail of Xanax and Valium that left him barely coherent, or he'd spend the remainder of the flight curled around the toilet. Unfortunately, today's aerial adventures fell under the latter. He'd forgotten his meds. He could see them clearly in his mind's eye, sitting in that little Ziploc baggie at the bottom of shaving kit. Something that was packed in the bottom of his luggage, which may or may not even be on this goddamned plane with him.

His arms were braced across the back of the stainless steel toilet seat, guts aching as he groaned aloud. His eyes drifted closed, burning as the sweat from his brow trickled down into them before rolling off the end of his crooked nose to drip down into the toilet bowl.

Shaking hands lifted from their death grip on the edge of the cold metal, and raked his damp hair back from his brow. "Fuck." The expletive did nothing for release. If he listened hard enough he could hear the bumps muffled through the wall from the occupied stall on the other side of his. Another stainless steel capsule, in which two people were joining the mile high club. The thought made him feel sick, despite the fact that he'd just finished puking out meals he hadn't yet eaten.

The plane shook and shuddered through the sky, and Jackson wondered, as he often did, if he was going to die here. Pathetically wrapped around this metal crapper with puke on his breath. His stomach rolled at the thought, not that he was afraid of looking death in the face, but because he could feel every little tremor through the thousand plus pounds of metal surrounding him. Jackson growled low in his throat, the sound more animal than man as he struggled to keep from retching again.

He let his head fall, resting his aching head against his folded arms. Oddly, perhaps ironically, he fell asleep there.

Moonlight silvered a dark room, spilling down from a dirty skylight. Somehow it was familiar. "Where am I?" He rasped, his voice rusty, mouth filled with a cottony film.

"Nowhere," McLeod said softly, his voice resonating through Jackson's head, "yeh're where the forgotten wait forever. Yeh are where the balance 'tween realms exists, if only fer a moment."

The accent was undoubtedly McLeod's, but the words were not. His eyes were like black voids, shiny marbles that reflected back Jackson's stricken features in duplicate miniature. He knelt beside Jackson, pulling the rolled joint from between his lips and exhaling the cloud of smoke in Jackson's face. It reeked of mary-jane, and the sick scent of decay. "Believe," McLeod said, "break the cycle, and see what's happenin'. If yeh're goin' ta survive what's coming down the pipe, yeh need ta b'lieve." The tone became more earnest, the brogue thicker now. "It's nae tha death that matters. It's the-"

"Believe what?" Jackson stammered, "believe that I'm going insane?"

"Yeh feckin' fool." McLeod drew himself up to his full height, towering over Jackson where he still slumped against the floor. His eyes were filled with black fire as he opened his mouth and roared, "BELIEVE EVERYTHING."

The world tilted on its axis, and Jackson was back on the plane, just in time to empty his guts one last time. Thick strands of saliva hung from his lips as he reeled back from the toilet bowl, crashing bodily against the wall hard enough to silence the couple fucking in the next cubicle. Jackson dragged the back of his hand across his lips, wiping away the sour saliva as he struggled to get up.

Shut down in silence, he breathed the recycled air in great gasping mouthfuls. He cranked on the faucet, and soaked his face with ice-cold water, feeling the shiver down to his marrow as the sweat cooled on his skin. Leaning in close to the mirror, he inspected himself. His body was good. Face was still a little too harsh- a man not sleeping well at night. In truth he hadn't slept worth a shit lately. Not in about eight months. He'd spent way too much time watching her sleep, and making a sad little habit out of it. Now the routine was there, and too damned hard to break.

Mentally he was exhausted- but physically, Brad Jackson was a lean, mean machine.

His stomach muscles clenched again, but he knew the voiding was over. He was empty. With a resigned sigh, he popped a piece of peppermint gum between his lips and turned towards the door, pulling it open with a hard jerk. He didn't see the woman until he nearly bowled her over. "Shit, sorry." He reached out a hand to steady her, but she waved it off.

"Wow, sorry. I was a million miles away." Her blue eyes matched the sky outside the windows, crinkling at the corners as she smiled up at him. Recognition dawned in them as she looked into his face. "Hey, you're that guy from TV. That wrestler. I know you…"

"Yeah." For a moment he said nothing, trying to will his hands to stop shaking. "I'm that guy."

The woman laughed softly, "it's not every day that I nearly get flattened by a celebrity."

"I'm no celebrity," he countered, looking over her shoulder towards his seat. The longing on his face wasn't lost on her. She saw the pallor of his skin that made the bruises around his eyes and nose stand out even darker purple and green.

"You look better in person…" her hand touched his arm, tiny slim fingers resting against his hot skin. If he didn't know better, she was coming onto him. He shook his head slowly.

Jackson's shoulders loosened. His stomach unclenched. Talking like this, he could finally relax. "Bullshit, but thanks for the compliment. I know that I look like hell."

"Doesn't it go with the territory? Being a wrestler and all-"

"I don't do that anymore," he snapped, pulling away from her. "Fuckin' retired about six months ago."

"Really? Aren't you a little young to-"

Jackson turned on his heel, leaving her behind without a further word as he stormed to his seat.

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Saturday, April 25, 2009
Killer Queen, Las Vegas

The club was packed.

Absolutely packed. But then again, it was a Saturday night. On Saturday nights, guys got a free bottle of champagne when they booked a VIP room and at least two girls. Mickey and his new apprentice bartender were working themselves to the point of exhaustion to keep the crowds teeming with alcohol of their choice.

She'd already gotten her normal vodka double before trying to weave her way through the back.

The bouncers had their hands full with the crowd, so there was no sense in getting one of them to break through the masses for her.

Her office wasn't far, hell, it was 50 in the back, behind the girl's changing/relaxation room. The burly bouncer guarding the door to the back was named Little John. It was tongue in cheek nickname she'd given him. He looked like a behemoth, but sounded like Mike Tyson when he talked. He opened it graciously for her, giving her a wide smile before closing it behind her and resuming the tough-guy bouncer face.

A few of the girls waved and nodded a greeting to her.

The key slipped into the lock on her office with practiced ease and she pushed the door open with her foot. Sinn flipped the light on with her free hand and almost immediately, she noticed something askew.

There was a hulking mass on the leather couch against the far wall.

The hulking mass was snoring.

The hulking mass was none other than Jackson. She thought he was asleep until a rough voice issued from the body, muffled by the back of the couch. "Turn the light off."

He heard a very blunt answer.

"No."

She dropped her bag and stood there staring at him, sipping from that vodka double. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Arranging flowers," came the sarcastic reply, "what the fuck's it look like I'm doing?" He shifted, long enough to pull his wadded up leather duster from beneath his head, and drape it over his face, effectively blotting out the fluorescent glow.

"Very funny. Get your lazy ass up and answer my damn question." She plopped down in the office chair, crossing her legs and awaiting his response.

The jacket sailed in her direction, slapping against the wall behind her head. Muttering under his breath, Jackson pushed himself up into a sitting position. His eyes were narrowed, half in anger, and half in response to the light boring into his retinas and searing his brain. One massive paw reached up and rubbed at his good eye- if calling the one bloodshot pisshole staring from his face that wasn't still bruised 'good' was any sort of compliment. "You're a smart cookie, Sinn. Figure it out."

"Well, either you're too drunk to drive or I'd wager you didn't want to go home." She raised an eyebrow, a smirk spreading across her face. Sinn wasn't in the mood to deal with his bullshit, but it was interesting...him sleeping here on a slight uncomfortable leather sofa and not back at the loft to the bed he shared with Ryann. "What's a matter, angelcakes? Ryann on the rag and you don't want to deal with her bitchiness?"

"Haven't been drinkin'," he muttered, shaking his head. He consulted his digital Timex on his wrist, and then sighed. "Plane landed about nine hours ago. Came here." Like clockwork, he pulled out the mangled and sweat-soaked pack of smokes from his back pocket. He slipped one of the warped cancer sticks between his lips, and lit it. "It's not... what you think."

"Then tell me what I should be thinking." She took a small sip off the vodka and bit back a grimace. The bottle it probably came from was not Stoli. She'd have to talk to Mickey about his apprentice getting her damn vodka correctly.

Jackson sighed, looking down at the floor. One of two things was about to happen. Either he would avoid the question completely, or he'd get angry. Instead he said something that made no sense. "It's not the death that matters," he said softly, shaking his head as he said it.

That eyebrow stayed raised up, now she was curious and just a tad concerned. "Brad Jackson... will you just fuckin' talk to me? No cryptic bullshit tonight, I'm not in the mood."

"Makes two of us." He lifted his head, blinking through the smoke as he stared at her. "I told you about McLeod, right? I know we weren't..." he waved his hand, groping for the right words, "quite civil when that shit went down..."

"Yeah, darlin. You told me that he died." She leaned forward slightly and uncrossed her legs. "Are you seeing crazy shit again?"

"Yeah." He didn't mince words. It wasn't really his style. "I see dead people." It wasn't meant to be funny, and it fell miles short of that mark when coupled with the look on his face. "I chalked it up to drugs... fuckin' exhaustion when I was with Mia... but, that's not it. It's getting a bit too weird. Next I'm gonna be answering the door to find demon minions there, waiting to escort my nutty ass back to Hell."

"Christ, Brad." It was all she could say, "And that's why you won't go home?"

"She doesn't know." He growled around the filter of the cigarette clamped between his teeth. "You know me. Can't keep shit off my face... you know me well enough; you know what's going on. I don't need that shit right now."

"I understand, Sweetcheeks, but you can't spend the night here. Get a fuckin' hotel room or something." Sinn finished off the vodka double and dropped the glass on her desk. There was no point in trying to get any work done tonight. Her mojo was all sorts of fucked up now. "Are you at least ready for your fight? Ozzy's looking forward to taking your head off."

"Yeah, I'm sure you had a hand in that." He rolled his eyes, moving to his feet stiffly. He crushed out the cigarette in the pristine ashtray that rested on the corner of her desk. "Probably told him all my secrets, didn't you?"

A twisted smile grew on her face, "Well, I had to give him something to lift his spirits and get him motivated; he got his ass handed to him by me in the tournament. Besides, I told him I'd tell you some of his secrets too. His left eye is all sorts of fucked up."

Jackson nodded, his twisted smirk mirroring hers. "So's mine, thanks to him." He chuckled, the sound dark, "just like that, Calvin Klein stopped calling. Fucker's ruined my boyish good looks."

Sinn just snorted with laughter, "What good looks? You're the ugliest fucker I've ever met."

She reached over into the bottom drawer of her desk and pulled out a small bottle of Stoli, refilling her glass.

"That, and I told him about your knees. I'll be in Kiev to watch the fights. I get to have fun watching your lover and that Silas idiot duke it out to face me."

"Knees aren't exactly a fuckin' secret," he snapped, reaching out and plucking the glass of vodka from in front of her. "Doesn't much matter," he downed the entire contents of the glass in one long swallow before continuing, "they don't pay me to look pretty out there. They pay me to fuck shit up. I can do that, even if I'm the six million dollar man with more metal than the T2."

"Asshole." She snatched the glass back and refilled it. "If Ryann wins this week, you know I'm not going to be gentle next week. Don't hold it against me if I break something on her."

"I'd be more inclined to hold it against you if you didn't. She's a big girl..." Jackson shrugged, letting the words trail off. "There's no fuckin' if, babe. She'll make Silas wish he'd never been born… got no doubts of that. Something's snapped with her… fuck, sometimes I wonder if she's crazier than I am."

She chuckled, "that, I highly doubt. Now, come on, I'll get you a hotel room since you don't want to go home. I'll even call Ryann for you and tell her you won't be home tonight because you're doing me a huge favor, all right?"

His smile was relieved and grateful, there and gone in a split second. "Thanks, babe."

One more laugh from her, "you owe me." As if she needed to remind him. The debt he'd racked up in her favor would take a hundred lifetimes to pay back.