Rage Against The Machine

The Aruba Hotel and Spa wasn't anywhere near as glamorous as the name implied. It was a glorified fleabag, rated as a three star hotel, but the service left something to be desired. She'd been here for more than a month, craving the anonymity.

Kitty sat alone at the bar in the middle of the afternoon, tapping her black lacquered fingernails on the counter. A glass half filled with melting ice, and some sort of clear liquid sat before her, forgotten. It could have been vodka, or water. It didn't matter much, since it was just a prop.

She sighed, lifting her sunglasses to peer at the pool. The cloudy water gave off a rank chemical smell. She wouldn't have considered swimming in that toxic waste dump even if she was desperate- dunking her ex husband in that however, that would be a treat. She could almost picture him screaming in agony as his skin melted away.

It brought a smile to her lips. She wondered when he'd show up. He had to know she was here by now, especially since she was scheduled to face his current little girlfriend- the goody-goody little bitch Ryann Hardy. She snorted, completed unladylike as she rolled her eyes, picturing the bimbo with her new tattoos, as though that made her more hardcore.

Replying to Petrov's letter had been a calculated risk, but she'd taken it without caring. Her life had been boring these last few years. A little fighting, a little training, a few black ops missions. Nothing like fighting with Jackson had been. Somewhere, deep down, she missed that.

Maybe he'd show up… maybe he wouldn't. Either way, she wasn't out anything. She was paler than usual, and dark circles ringed her puffy eyes, matching with the fading bruises beneath. She'd taken quite the beating last week, despite the almost easy win over Shane Sanders- a woman she knew almost as well as Jackson did.

Her arms were reddened with sunburn, as was her nose, where it wasn't bruised. She sighed, and checked her watch for the billionth time. Five minutes had passed since the last inspection. Her contact was late. Ironically, the bellhop here was a member of an outlaw biker gang- people who knew how to get things, without questions.

She found herself humming, and stopped when she realized what the song was. Manilow… Copacabana. Ugh. "Her name was Kitty... she was a bitch," she sang softly, letting that cat-like grin curve her perfect lips.

Funny that she'd relocated to Vegas when all the shit hit the fan. Ironic perhaps, that this was the first place she'd fled with him, back in 2002- almost seven years ago. If she'd given it time to consider then, she might not have done something so impulsive. Thoughts of that nature were far, far from her mind now. Instead thoughts of revenge rested there now.

She should have snuffed that little bitch the moment Jackson had met up with her again in WCWF. She smirked at the thought. God, it would be so good to just wrap her hands around that bitch's throat and choke her out. Brad would probably kill her for that, but damn it would be fun.

Hard as nails, there was no way Ryann Hardy was going to beat her in The Circle. It just wasn't her nature to be the aggressor… but it was Kitty's.

A hand touched her shoulder, startling her so that she gasped loudly. The bellhop stood behind her, a light jacket draped over his arm.

"Miss, you forgot your purse at the front desk."

She smiled at the absurdity of it all, noting that although he had a strange accent, this man's English was flawless. She took the purse, feeling the heavy weight of the gun as he slid it into her hand. She never carried a purse, yet she nodded, smiling broadly. "Yes, silly me." She opened the zipper, making the pretense of checking the contents before nodding again. The gun wasn't something she'd usually go for- normally she enjoyed the weight of her Glock, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Bad enough she was going to smuggle the thing into Mexico- she wanted to make sure it was untraceable.

"Thank you so much for returning it!" Her hand wrapped around his as she slipped a few folded Franklins into his palm. She leaned foward, kissing him on the cheek in a further display of gratitude. "Tell Stone thanks for me," she whispered.

"Anytime, chica." He walked away slowly, the tip for his services having already vanished into one of his uniform pockets.


The room was hot, close quarters filled with the stale odor of mildew and tobacco. He sat on the floor, back against the wall, cloaked in shadows. A slice of sunlight slanted between the askew curtains and splashed across his clasped hands. He frowned, looking at the scars across their backs.

If he listened hard, he could hear the roaches scuttling through the rotted drywall behind him. Instead he chose to push it away, letting his eyes drift closed for a moment. A stolen second of peace in an otherwise chaotic universe.

He grunted, shifting position as he raked one of those scarred hands though his sweat-soaked hair. The air conditioning in this room left something to be desired. His dark eyes flashed as he looked up; a sardonic smirk curved his lips as he fished out the mangled, sodden pack of Camels from his back pocket. A sigh emphasized the silence as he swiveled that baleful gaze back from the momentary preoccupation, plucking a warped cigarette from the pack. A cheery yellow lighter appeared in his hand, the flame conjured as though part of a parlor trick as he drew the smoke into his lungs. He turned it over, letting it rest on his palm, inspecting the smiley face emblazoned on the yellow plastic.

The ghost of a smile quirked the corners of his lips, there and gone in an instant as he closed his fingers over the cool plastic. Momentary amusement only.

He cocked his head, listening intently. The hallway outside the door creaked under someone's weight. It wasn't housekeeping.

The door opened and closed, and she stepped inside. The empty purse slapped against the wall beside the bed as she tossed it before moving inside the tiny bathroom.

She snapped the light on, and grimaced at the face that looked back at her in the mirror. The last jaundiced bruises were fading from her jaw, cheekbones, and the back of her neck, where the unforgiving cement of that fighting pit had hit. Just looking at the injuries fueled her anger, making her stomach sour. Another of Brad's little cast off whores. She felt ill; hatred that burned in her stomach was like a molten ball of lead. Quickly, she pulled off the sundress she'd been wearing and donned the jeans that were draped over the shower curtain rod. She then turned her attention to her hair, throwing it up in a messy ponytail.

She picked up the pile of towels from the rack, and unfolded the bottom towel, wrapping it around the dull, black pistol before returning it to the pile. It was cold, and felt evil but to her, it was a necessary evil. She wasn't going to kill him. She wasn't that stupid, but the gun might be necessary to get past Petrov's goons. She needed a meeting with the boss.

The eyes that peered back at her in the mirror didn't seem in the least bit familiar. They were cold, and flat, utterly alien. She looked like a badass, with the cold sneer on her lips, and the thin, still pinkish scar that marred her lip didn't do much to help matters.

Jackson stretched out his legs, feeling the wall shudder against his back as he pushed his weight against it. Tilting his head back and fixing his gaze on the water-stained, sagging ceiling, he spoke, his voice loud in the silence.

"Love's a lie," he said softly, his voice nothing more than a gravelly rasp as he addressed the cracked stucco, "it's nothing more than a fading echo, thrown back at you only to mock your best intentions."

She whirled around, arms akimbo as she stood in the doorway. "What the hell is wrong with you?!" She shrieked in outrage, quashing the urge to reach for the gun she'd just hidden.

"Nothing." She could see the glow of the cherry on his cigarette, could smell the Turkish smoke now. Funny she hadn't even noticed it when she'd come in.

He shook his head slowly, running one stiff hand along his jawline, his fingers rasping over the dark stubble there as he fell silent. The unmistakable odor of tobacco and that spicy cologne he always wore filled her nostrils as she breathed deeply.

"It's been a while," he said softly, pushing up to his feet. He slipped from the shadows, appearing suddenly, almost as though shrugging off the darkness like one would a coat. An ominous chuckle passed his lips; a crooked smile on his lips as he paused in front of her, more than arm's reach away.

"What do you want, Bradley?"

He wasn't supposed to be here. She was expecting a showdown in Mexico. A little fracas at whatever little shit hotel he was booked in there. Instead he was here, on her turf- inside her goddamn room.

She stepped up close to him, resting her hand on his chest. She could feel the heat radiating off him, the cotton was already damp. He was supposed to be in Los Angeles. With Ryann. The thought of him sharing a bed with Ryann made her blood boil. Try as she might to deny it, she was still jealous.

His sigh was ragged as he rolled his head back, feeling the tension in his neck muscles. The smile twisted as his eyes snapped open again, filled with loathing, becoming a snarl of distaste. His lip curled in contempt as he spoke her name. "Kaitlynn, get your hands off me. Now."

But he's not with her now. He's here.

The thought resonated. She didn't back off, despite the fact that he smelled like someone else. The past fell away as she stared up into his eyes. There were hard lines around his mouth, and the stubble on his chin was peppered with gray now, but he was essentially still the same man she'd fallen in love with years ago.

"Look like you're far away." He mused, one dark brow quirking as he stared into her eyes, unflinching.

She lifted her hand, stroking it down his cheek.

"Don't." His jaw clenched in anger. "That's enough." His hand shot out, taking hold of her face. He squeezed her cheeks, and then bodily shoved her back. She collided with the wall hard enough to drive the air from her lungs. Anger snapped in her hazel eyes, making them shift from green to gold.

"You have five minutes, starting now… to tell me why you're here. No bullshit, Kitty."

She rolled her eyes, hands on her hips. "Uh, right. You're not the one footing the fucking weekly rent here, Bradley. You don't have that say anymore. I don't owe you an explanation."

The ironies just kept right on a'coming. She'd been trying to write him a letter to tell him- to avoid this very situation.

He took one last drag off the cigarette; the motions deliberate as he devoured it before dropping it to the floor, grinding it out against the filthy carpet beneath his jackboot. "You do, actually. I was here first."

She rolled her eyes, moving away as he stepped into her personal space. She could feel the heat of his body, and it did more than make her feel uncomfortable.

"Brad, stop it." Her eyes narrowed, and this time she tried to push him away. It was like trying to rock a brick wall. He didn't move.

"Thought we'd agreed on things, babe. We can't coexist." His hands pressed against the wall on either side of her as he crushed her with the length of his hard-planed body. "We get together, and there's just too short a fuse. Is war what you want? Ryann wants your head..."

"Fuck her," Kaitlynn spat, lips curled in distaste. "She couldn't kill me if she tried-"

"She's pretty proud of breaking your nose."

"What happened to you? When did you become such a pussy-whipped loser?" She whispered.

The words were flat, falling between them with an almost audible slap. She reached out towards him, and he recoiled with a look of disgust, anger hardening his features. "Bradley," his name faltered on her lips, the next dying before passing her lips.

"Don't." The word was uttered with such authority that she froze, her hand falling limply back to her side. "Don't touch me, don't look at me like that." He turned away from her, shaking his head as he raked a hand through his hair.

"Jax…" The nickname came out almost unbidden; she'd never really called him that. Not like others had. She thought it was stupid. "Why-"

He cut her off, whirling back to face her with wild anger in his eyes, "why what? Why the fuck am I here? C'mon, you're not stupid. Did you think I wasn't going to confront you, Kaitlynn?" He grinned, reaching into his pocket for a fresh cigarette. He lit it with a flourish, his eyes fastened on hers. Oddly, he appeared handsome, his features peaceful as he continued to leisurely smoke, a bluish halo circling his head. "You fucking forget, baby. I didn't quit us, you did. You did when you turned all these storylines into reality. How many more, how many more dicks are you going to suck to get your way in the industry?"

Her palm flashed through the air, connecting with his cheek. "Bastard."

"Whore," he countered. Cigarette clamped between his lips, he stormed past her, and pulled out the gun from between the towels. "Dirty, fucking whore."

The color ran from Kitty's face in a sheet, leaving her deathly pale as he checked the bullets with a quick motion before pointing the gun at her. "So, what's the plan? Are you going to shoot her, Kitty? Even for you that's fucked up."

She snarled, launching herself at him, and then found herself in motion. She slammed into the wall again, all of the air exploding from her lungs in a rush. She would have screamed, but he was upon her before she could make a sound. One hand was around her mouth, and the other pressed the gun to her temple. She felt the press of the cold steel against her scalp.

"Stop." The word was muffled by his hand, but he heard it clearly enough. He withdrew his palm, eyes cold as ice as he issued a warning.

"You scream, I'll shoot you." But he was the one who faltered. She saw it in his eyes.

He sighed.

She laughed, and the sound was as far from humor as a scream would have been. "You've got it all wrong."

"Yeah? Enlighten me then."

She shook her head, "can't talk about it..."

His voice changed, growing rougher as though the words were pushed through his vocal cords by force. "Look at me, you bitch…" He leaned in close, the smell of cigarettes and mint on his breath. "Need some proper violence... it's been too damn long. Tell me... or I'm going to break you in half, Kaitlynn."

She shook her head as the tears filled her eyes. "Please stop… I…"

"This following me has got to stop." Jackson moved off her with a graceless gesture, dropping down to the floor to sit beside her as she crumpled to the floor in pain. The gun was still in his hand.

"The Russians... Petrov..." she swallowed hard. "They hired me to spy on him... maybe kill him, I'm not sure. That's why I'm here."

"Bullshit." He snapped, "I don't buy that for a second. Way too convenient."

"You can help me..." she murmured, looking up at him through her lowered lashes. "Be like old times."

He grimaced, a decidedly gruesome gesture with the blood flowing down his cheek from the claw marks that had come with her vicious slap. "I don't think so."

"Don't tell anyone. They find out, they'll kill me... you know that, don't you?"

"They already tried to kill me," he said it casually as though he didn't care. Knowing him it was likely true.

Her gaze flicked to the gun in Brad's hand, and then back to his face as her voice took on a pleading tone. "Surely you can't object to that. Give me back the gun." She held out her hand, her lips curved in a chilling smile. "I'll leave you alone... promise. You and Little Miss Inked-"

Jackson lowered his arm, shaking his head slowly. With a reflexive action, he ejected the clip from the gun, allowing the gun to fall harmlessly to the floor as he held the clip, dwarfed between his massive hands. "Don't think so, sweetheart."

Slowly, as though time had ground to a halt, she watched, her eyes narrowing to slits as he twisted the clip, bullets flying every which way. A cry of anguish tore from Kitty's lips as she flung herself at him, beating ineffectually at his chest.

"NO! Nononono… you bastard!" Tears fell from her eyes, streaking down her cheeks, which were livid with sunburn and anger. She sank to her knees, clutching the empty gun to her chest as the tears rolled down her face.

He took that moment to move to his feet, lighting another cigarette as he opened the door. "See ya round, Kitty."

The gun fell from her lifeless fingers, bouncing on the stained carpet. What did it matter? It was useless now. She was trembling, but she didn't notice as she moved to her feet. She chewed her bottom lip, tasting blood, and not caring. If he was going to stop her, she'd do it the hard way. She crossed to the nightstand beside the bed. She pulled open the drawer, and retrieved the Walther P99 from inside. It was still registered to him. She knew that.

Guilt crashed over her in a wave, making her stomach churn again. What was she doing?

"The right thing." She said firmly, trying like hell to draw a full breath. Her ribs hurt. So did her back.

Fucking Jackson...