**Author's Note: Suggested listening- "Sweet Dreams" by the Eurhythmics. Now… onto the story.**
CHAPTER EIGHT- Playing a Part
She would have called it off, really she would have. There were only two tiny things stopping her.
The first-and really, she'd admit it was no tiny matter-was her pride.
The second was that she'd never before actually felt cashmere.
With one hand, Gen held a hand to her mouth, holding back the frustrated curse that wanted to form as she reached the other hand out to stroke the luxuriant black material. An outfit, of all things, and one she'd never have dreamed of wearing in a million years. She didn't know how she'd manage to get out of the house with it on, but she knew she would.
She had to.
It was a matter of pride, wasn't it? Not a matter of a peaceful hour passed between the inimical.
With a sigh, Gen quickly shucked off the comfortable, baggy jeans she'd donned fresh from the shower and, after a dire glance, shimmied into the tight ones he'd provided for her, the cuffs and waistband fashionably ragged. Much to her surprise, they fit to a tee.
That was enough to start her in a foul mood. A Mallory didn't need to be right any more than was absolutely necessary, and he certainly didn't need to be right about a girl's clothing size. It was just… improper. She slipped her feet into the stacked black sandals he'd thrown in the bag-also the bloody correct size-and left the best for last.
It was just a halter top, a sleeveless contraption with absolutely nothing to cover her belly and a cunning neckline that she knew would ride close to her throat, just barely escaping severity. The back was a complicated mess of strings so soft she was afraid they'd fall apart, but they held true when she pulled it on.
And it felt absolutely heavenly, soft as a cloud and sinful as a secret, clinging to the slight curves she possessed and riding just above her navel. She chanced a glance in the mirror and grimaced. Not a Wesley in that mirror, by any means. No, it was a little girl playing dress-up in someone else's things. Her cheeks an angry red, Gen snatched a cardigan from the doorknob and slipped it on, covering her back and her stomach with a few angry tugs.
If he wanted her to play dress-up, then she would. She wouldn't go out looking the fool as she was sure he expected.
She'd look the part he wanted her to play, and she'd play his game on her own terms.
Genevieve Wesley never played any other way.
~~~
"You made those boys run."
She was still… everloving… following him.
Rob regretted ever taking for granted that he knew exactly what a headache felt like. He hadn't ever really had a headache before, he thought, oh no. Not anything like this. A headache, a migraine, a bloody pike in his head would feel better than this.
Lucia Lovejoy had become his shadow.
"Yes, Lucia, I made those boys run," Rob said, rubbing a filthy hand over an equally filthy face. The team had played deplorably, the worst scrimmage they'd had all season, and he'd made them run. He had run right with them, however. Team captain still started with the word team, he reckoned. So he ran with them. He was exhausted, starving, and sore, and she was adding embarrassed to the list.
"I would have thought a boy like you would be out with a date on a Friday night," Lucia said, making another note in her book. Would it really take him so much to just look at her? She may have been weird, but it wasn't as though she was a dead loss, Lucia thought.
"It's hard to find a date when you've a second shadow," Rob said, forgetting to check his crossness in a moment of sheer exhaustion. And though Lucia said nothing, did nothing, he could feel the difference immediately, and guilt swamped him. When he turned around, she no longer had her notebook out and was looking for a place to cross the road. "Come on, Lovejoy, don't take it personally. I'm just tired. You should go home, or… go out. Have yourself a date." Even as he said the words, they sounded lame. After all, who dated Lovejoy? She was like a bloody ostrich, either sticking her head in the sand or walking around with it in the clouds.
"I don't date," she said simply, but she was still looking for a place to cross. "In case you've not noticed, Robert, boys don't like girls like me." She tossed her hair, started to step off the sidewalk, and was immediately jerked back by Rob as a sleek, green car tore down the road.
Rob's eyes narrowed as he stared after the retreating taillights of the feline machine, and he completely missed the unmasked gaze of hero worship in the recently rescued Lucia's eyes.
Only one person he knew had a car like that. And there was absolutely no reason for him to be on this end of town.
"I have to go home," he told Lucia tightly, finally turning to her and shaking her a little. "Go home, and don't walk out in front of any autos," he said, and he hoped against hope his little sister was home.
~~~
If she'd looked foolish, he'd have called it all off. If she'd looked frumpy, or beggarly, or poor, or stupid, he'd have had a laugh at her expense and he'd have driven on his way.
If it would all just fall the way he meant for it to fall, he'd let it be.
But it wouldn't, of course. Damn the luck.
Drake was starting to think if it weren't for bad luck, he'd have none at all.
She walked out of the house with a wary glance behind her, shutting the door and running down the steps of the sidewalk as though the hounds of hell were after her. She'd done something to hair, made that horrifying red shine and fall in waves, and she'd actually done something with her face.
If he squinted, he could hardly see the freckles.
And then, as she reached his car door, her face fixed in a cold, hateful expression that looked the same, makeup or no, she shed the ratty old sweater she wore, and Drake felt like slamming his head into his steering wheel.
Of… bloody… course.
Of course the bloody wraith would look like that. It didn't matter that she'd hardly any chest to speak of; suddenly she was wearing a shirt that clung to what bits she had. And the pants he'd chosen-you did choose them, he reminded himself torturously-left little to the imagination.
And her stomach was very, very pale, and there he could see the freckles just fine.
Freakish Wesley freckles.
"Who knew there was a female under all that dirt and foul-mouthed prattle?" he asked, his voice smooth despite the snarl that wanted to escape.
"Drive," she bit out, stepping down into the car and slamming the door. "Now."
He'd changed clothes, she noticed, changing the school uniform slacks for his own jeans, black denim, and a loose black shirt that was barely buttoned. She didn't care to ask if he'd gone somewhere or, more likely, had just stripped down in the car in front of her house. She just wanted to get out of there, and as soon as possible.
But still he sat, looking wide-eyed at her over the ever-present sunglasses. "Wesley, I am shocked! Your behavior indicates you've been less than forthright about your intentions for this evening." The prissy, high-toned speech sounded dead up like his father, and he felt like rolling his eyes. Though she really did look like a murderer nearly in the hands of the law.
He waited until she'd nearly put on her safety belt, then he slammed on the gas.
He didn't want to be late, after all.
He never considered a night to be underway until his arrival, and tonight… he had a guest.
~~~
She was at her wits' end.
Hermione Granger had never stumbled upon an unsolvable problem before, but that was just what she'd stumbled upon. No matter how many times she cast the wood chips, she got the same sort of answers-muddled, confusing, and technically impossible. Every chip in the bowl was a stacked pair, and numerous tiny eddies would form as those stacked pairs circled one another, twirled with one another. They were all central, however, to the one pair-Ginny's and, Hermione had assumed, Ron's. But this last time, just hours ago, she'd talked Harry into casting Ron's as she'd cast Ginny's, and there had been turmoil in both-
But it had been different turmoil, vastly different.
Ginny and Ron weren't agitating each other, Hermione deduced as she wrote down the known facts on a scrap piece of parchment, but she could get no deeper than that simple conclusion-at least, not logically.
But something sparked in her mind as she sketched the bowls she'd seen earlier, chips circling 'round one another- a memory of Ginny throwing hexes like a pro. A memory of Gin giving a certain snotty Slytherin precisely what he deserved. Even as she felt her stomach sink with the possibility, she tried to talk herself out of it. But the facts were there-Ginny and Draco were both gone, and someone was bothering her.
And from the looks of it, she was bothering someone else.
"I hope you're being careful, Gin," Hermione said, taking the parchment she'd drawn on and rolling it up carefully.
She would take it, show someone.
But who?
~~~
She didn't want to look at him, and she certainly didn't want to look at her own reflection in the side mirror. She looked ridiculous, and seeing herself only served as a reminder of what she was doing, all for the sake of pride.
But Gen really couldn't see any way around it.
She'd left a note on the kitchen table telling her mother she'd gone to pick up homework from Connor, and she'd slipped out the door like a thief in the night. She'd be in a fine stew, indeed, if either of her parents or her brother found out. She didn't think there was any way on earth she'd be able to justify going out barely dressed as "tutoring."
Instead of looking at him, Gen kept her eyes focused on the car seat, which he still hadn't replaced. Though the ink mark wasn't as glaring as it had been when she'd first done it, it was still there.
"If you're trying to embarrass me, you may as well turn around and take me home. I've certainly no care for what your friends think," she said suddenly, her eyes jumping up to meet his in the rear view mirror.
Of course she couldn't see his expression-though the sun was setting, he hadn't yet taken off the sunglasses. "My friends," he answered flatly, swinging into the unpaved parking lot of a small, nondescript building she'd never seen before, "Won't recognize you without your usual patched clothing and air of destitution."
Now that feels more like it, he thought as he got out of the car, tossing his sunglasses back into the front seat.
Gen got out on her own-not that she expected any help from him, the spoiled bastard-and slammed the car door. Feeling marginally satisfied by the loud report it gave out, she opened the car door once more and slammed it again. Before she could repeat her efforts again, the security system on the car gave a slight beep.
"Take your frustrations out elsewhere, Wesley, I've places to be and you've a night of pretense to keep up. And do try to keep up." Plastering a glittering grin on his face, Drake offered her his arm, only to have it coldly refused as she walked ahead of him, hips swinging to keep her balance in the tall shoes, back bared to the wind.
Oh, yes, Drake thought, clenching his keys in his fist before pocketing them. No one on earth was going to recognize her now.
As they walked into the small, makeshift club, they were swallowed up by the music, by the people around them, and there was no more chance for talk.
Gen watched wide-eyed as people thronged around her, more people than she'd ever seen crammed in one place before in her life. There were a few familiar faces, but most were unfamiliar, people she'd never seen and people she knew she'd never see again.
It was just weird.
At a loss for words and feeling very much out-of-place, Gen turned reflexively to Drake-and clamped her mouth shut before any words could escape. He stood still in the doorway, his light head bent close to a head of dark hair, a young woman in a purple halter even briefer than Gen's own, her black pants emphasizing a tiny, doll-like build. She saw Drake laugh, his lips form the word "Later," and he bent to brush a kiss over first one flawless cheek, then the other.
Gen put a hand to her own freckled cheek and, for a moment, envied the girl her porcelain complexion.
Surely she envied her nothing else.
With an exquisite eye roll, Gen turned away from the sickening spectacle of Drake and what was surely one of his many women, and staked out a tiny table in the corner. Escape, however, was not to be so easy. He was at her side before she could even map out an exit route, kicked back in one of the chairs, his feet resting on an extra one he'd somehow found.
"You've been here all of five minutes," he said, finally taking out the cigarette he'd stowed away at her house and placing it between his lips. Instead of lighting it himself, however, he leaned forward and caught the tip of the cigarette in the candle on the table. "And already you hate it."
"This isn't my sort of place," she said, crossing her arms over her chest and looking at him archly. "Wasn't that what you were trying to prove?"
He exhaled, narrowing eyes that nearly matched the color of the smoke. "No. I'm trying to prove it's not anyone's sort of place, Wesley. How you manage to be so daft and still get good grades is beyond me. Maybe the teachers pity you," he said, smirking. No, it really wasn't her sort of place. She looked too haughty for her own good-she looked as though she were still judging, even in skimpy clothing and a good layer of discomfort. "Don't nick anyone's belongings while I'm gone," he finally said at length, ashing the cigarette in the small dish provided for that purpose. "I'm going to dance."
~~~
At Connor's for assignments. Will return as soon as possible, don't wait up. Love, Gen.
A single muscle jumped and fluttered in Rob's cheek as he read his sister's neat script. The green car he'd seen tearing through their neighborhood plus the knowledge that Connor was still in the school's newsroom pounding out the Herald added up to no good in Rob Wesley's mind.
No good at all.
He knew his Mum wouldn't stay up; she trusted Gen implicitly. In truth, up until now, so had Rob.
But he thought he'd stay up himself tonight, just in case, and in the back of his mind, a puzzling image nagged him, paired with an odd feeling of helplessness.
A stone wall covered in jagged letters…
"Been hanging about too much with that harebrained Lovejoy," he told himself as he jerked open the cabinets looking for something to eat. But even the dismissal of the vision didn't shake the shudder that wanted to go through him.
~~~
No one had spoken to her, and no one had asked her to dance. He'd been gone for nearly an hour, and though she'd gotten many speculative looks, no one had approached. They were not unfriendly, but nor were they friendly. It was as though some sort of shield surrounded her, and the more time passed, the more dejected Gen grew.
The least some git could do was ask her to dance so she wouldn't be sitting there like a lump while her…
Date? her brain supplied cheerily, and she shoved it way. Mustn't call it that. Her escort was out dancing with every girl on the floor.
Good on him, Genevieve thought with a small sneer. The more they had of him, the less she had to put up with.
Whether it was the shift in movement or the hot, Latin licks of the song that caught her attention, Gen couldn't discern, but her eyes were drawn to the center of the floor, where Drake stood draped over the girl she'd seen him with earlier, his tall frame covering her tiny one with plenty to spare. It was a little like watching a tango, she thought, only with more sex added. What they were doing took talent, as the steps were complicated-but Gen didn't notice the steps so much as she noticed the lines of their bodies pressed together, the worshipful look the girl gave him as they kept time with one another.
And through it all, Gen could feel her jaw tightening, the tension blooming in her neck, her shoulders, and her head. It was easy enough to attribute it to a more professional strain, the strain of a tutor who sees clearly why her pupil is too busy to do homework.
Easy enough.
When the dance ended, both dancers were out of breath, and Drake made a big show of kissing his partner's hand before leading her off the floor with him. They ended up in front of Gen, the look passing between them unmistakable.
Genevieve thought she was going to be sick.
The girl dropped a wink at Drake, and then looked pityingly at Gen. "Drake, love, you really ought to take your… friend… on the floor for a dance."
"Oh, yes, Drake, love," Gen said saccharinely, poison dripping from every word. "You really ought to."
And unbelievably, he grinned.
"Thought you'd never ask."
~~~
Later, she wouldn't remember getting to the center of the floor. All she would remember was that beat, insistent and loud, thrumming not only into her ears, but through her chest, her bones.
"Good God!" she exclaimed in a half-shout, grimacing at the bass. "Why does it have to be so bloody loud?"
Drake rolled his eyes and stepped into her so he could hear, knowing he was about to get his checkmate-if he could manage to cut her down in a four-minute song, she'd think twice before trying to upbraid him again. "If it were any quieter, you foul-mouthed peasant, I would have no reason whatsoever to stand close to you."
"Pity it's not, then," she snapped back, moving her feet a bit. "I'm liable to break my damned ankle in these tart shoes you brought."
Could she be any dafter? Drake wondered. Was there any humanly way for her to annoy him more?
"Fuck your ankles, Wesley, it's your hips you're supposed to move," he retorted, wondering how she could take something like dancing and make it so joyless. "If you can manage that."
Oh, she thought she could.
"One thing, Mallory, before we start," Gen shouted over the music. "Don't you lay a mangy finger on me."
And then the rest of the beat kicked in.
She stepped out of her shoes in an easy, smooth motion, then snapped her hips sharply from side to side with the music, her smooth stomach taut with the controlled motion. She let her hands drift at the bared skin on her sides and sent them gliding down to her hips as they pivoted with the music.
For a moment he stood motionless, arms crossed over his chest, black shirt sticking slightly to his body with the heat of the room. He applauded sarcastically as the female singer's voice kicked in, and neither of them heard her wailing, plaintive wordlessness for what it was-a warning cry.
The words started-Sweet dreams are made of this-and he stepped into her with eerie speed, hardly seeming to move as he stepped into her rhythm as though it were his own, his body following her sway as though he had started it.
She eyed him balefully, somehow resenting his participation, and ground her hips right. He followed closely, his own hips following the arc of hers while remaining mere inches away. She stepped to her right and he to his left, keeping body to body with her, his eyes directly on hers as she rolled her hips clockwise and he did the same.
Gen leaned into him challengingly, wondering if he'd touch her anyway, now wanting to force him into it-like a childhood spat, it was up to her to goad him into making the mistake, into flubbing up, but there was nothing childlike about this at all. She leaned into him and he leaned back, snake-quick, and then he repeated the motion to her, leaning in and making her stumble back.
It was cat-and-mouse now, and she could see he intended for her to trip up just as much as she intended the same for him. The challenge was hot and blatant in his eyes, and she dipped down, grazing her fingers to the floor.
Some of them want to use you…
He dropped with her, his knee fitting cannily between hers, his breath feathering over her face as they stood together in tandem, slowly drawing out the muscles. His hands ghosted for just a moment over her hips, not touching, but she could feel the heat off those warm, wide palms, and it made her see red.
The singer's siren voice lapsed into the whip-cracking beat again, and Gen circled to her left even as he circled to his right, forming a tight, small circuit like two animals sizing one another up for a fight.
"Afraid I'll bite, Wesley?" he asked, bending his head to put his lips close to-but not touching, no, she'd specified no touching, and he'd not lose this challenge-her ear.
She raised her head, her hair brushing his lips, and her hot brown eyes narrowed hatefully. "Purebreds bite just as often as mutts," she reminded him over the music, and now the singer's wail was a battle cry, spurring them both on.
She turned her back to him now, walking away from him and knowing he was right behind her as she extended her arms a bit, rolling her shoulders and feeling his arms line up directly behind hers. In a split second she was facing him again, sending him backward, and then a reciprocation on his end, sending her bending so far back she was kneeling before him.
She walked backward on her knees, taking the first opportunity to scramble back to her feet.
The "no touching" rule had not been a smart one, she saw now. For now, every near-brush was torture, and every bit of heat was too keen to describe.
And in that heat, it was ever so easy to lose what she knew she thought of him, and to lose what she knew he thought of her.
She was following him, perhaps not as well as he was following her, but Drake knew if she'd been anyone else, he'd be giving her at least grudging respect. But her glowing face, her angry, combative eyes only made him want to strike out more, made him want to make her shake.
He dipped to the floor this time, and she dropped with him. As they had last time, she started the sinuous slide up-and he stayed right where he was, crouched to the floor, his breath now hot on her stomach, drying the sheen of sweat there and bringing forth a new wave of heat.
And now the voice, that wordless cry the singer interspersed through the song, sounded like a sob to Genevieve, and she could sympathize, feeling the sinful warmth pour through her body and into her core. She turned her back again, her cheeks burning, but now he was spooned behind her, only an inch from her, and their bodies were moving in such small ways that they seemed to be locked together, rocking imperceptibly and suggestively to the beat throbbing around them.
Hold your head up…
His breath fluttered the hair tucked behind her ear and he inhaled deeply, smelling the honeysuckle warmth of her hair, the fire she tried to keep from licking out around the edges. All that smooth, freckled skin of her back confronted him and he hovered a hand first over it, then down over her long, slender arm. He hinted at putting his hand under hers and she lifted it, lining their arms up together as he coaxed her to raise hers to the ceiling even as his drew back down, stroking the air near her arm, but only the air, and never the skin itself.
Gen let her hand trail down, picking up the hair off the back of her neck-God, when had it gotten so bloody hot?-and then he was there, his head dropped over her shoulder, his lips so untouchingly close to the skin of her shoulder she could feel him breathing, feel the words forming on his lips.
God, Wesley…
The words were swallowed up in the music as they were swallowed up in it, mindless now with the game they'd both started, neither one knowing how to win. Fascinated with the power he'd wielded over her and the possibility of the same over him, Gen turned her face to look at his in profile and raised two fingertips near his cheek-
And with no more effort than that she made him turn his face toward hers, their breaths mingling together, eyes locked on eyes, and a tiny whimper escaped Gen's lips.
Some of them want to abuse you…
Some of them want to be abused…
The cry of the singer this time broke Gen from her reverie, and her whimper turned into a gasp, drawing the breaths they'd shared back into her lungs and making her choke, tears drawing to her eyes with the force of the renewed breaths, and the ghost-echo of his words speared into her brain.
God, Wesley…
And she knew this must have been his intent all along, to pull her outside herself and make her look the fool.
With a desperate glance at him, body now still, she implored for it not to be true-the evening's surreal events to have just been a dream-and she ran from the floor to get away from the music, knowing he would follow her.
He could follow her to hell for all she cared; all she wanted was some safe ground.
And when he broke out of the doors and into the night air, the last thing Drake Mallory felt was safe.
He felt crazed.