FIC: Female Intuition (1/?)
hey folks... so seeing movies is really not good for me. it makes me write stories. so here's a little Red Eye fic that is threatening to grow a plot. hey.. something to keep us entertained while i work on Siren.
Title: Female Intuition (1/?)
Author: Cleo
Rating: R-- violence, some sexual content
Fandom: Red Eye- Jackson/OFC
Disclaimer: I own nothing. No money. Don't sue.
Shea clutched the Maglite between her teeth as she picked the lock on the French doors. She worked the pick back and forth quickly, desperately trying to get inside. “Fuck,” she whispered around the flashlight in her mouth, “what the hell did you do to this thing?” After a few minutes it became obvious that the doors were not coming open when she twisted the tool forcefully. The blade slipped, tearing through the leather glove and into the web of flesh between her thumb and forefinger. “Pieces of shit--” she grumbled, tossing the picks over her shoulder and into the bushes twenty feet below. She put her hand to her mouth, tasting the blood and licking it away. “Just what I needed--” she growled, becoming more pissed off with each passing minute. Reaching down, she drew a long, silver knife from the sheath strapped to her thigh. “This better fucking work.” She forced the knife between the door and the frame, bending and shoving the knife until the blade popped the lock out of place. “Wonder of wonders, it works,” she sighed, opening the door slowly and stepping inside.
She kept the knife drawn as she crawled into the darkness of the bedroom. Her green eyes, the only part of her visible through the black mask, save for her painted black lips, glowed in the sliver of light coming from under the door. He was still here, thank God. Shea backed up against the wall and began to make her way across the room. She would have to wait here, no sense in ruining the surprise. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as the adrenaline seeped into her veins. It was always like this just before. As many times as she’d been through this routine, you’d think she’d be more relaxed-- but she never was. This job gave her a sort of high that no drug could ever achieve. She supposed that was what made it so satisfying… and made her so good at it.
Shea heard a noise and whipped her head around to listen. She held her breath, waiting for another sound. When she was satisfied that it had been just her imagination, she made her way over to the closet to wait. She’d wait until Masterson was tucked down, all nice and snuggly in his bed, and then when he least expected it, she’d take him down so easy that he’d just fall asleep and never wake up. She’d been taught well.
She bumped into the slatted closet doors, rattling them. She put her fingertips to her lips, as if reminding herself to keep quiet. She waited a moment, then reached behind her, turning the knob slowly and peering around the corner, making sure Masterson wasn’t coming up the stairs. She relaxed and opened the door all the way, stepping back into the closet. She immediately felt someone push hard against her back, shoving her forward out of the closet and face-first onto Masterson’s bed. She turned, wielding the knife like Norman Bates and slashing wildly at her attacker. The person coming out of the closet was so darkly sheathed in shadows that she couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman. Had someone given Masterson the heads-up and he had been waiting for her to show up? Surely not. He’d never be that sloppy. She hardly had time to think of it, since before she could blink, the person was on top of her. Shea tried to kick him off with her feet, and groaned when he pinned both legs down with his knees. “Let me go, you son of a bitch!” she screamed, bringing down the knife with a frenzied desperation. The person on top of her, obviously with the strength of a man, grabbed the wrist that held the knife and bashed it against the headboard until she dropped it, crying out sharply. As soon as she was unarmed, he sat up, putting his full weight on her chest, his knees pinning her shoulders to the bed. He picked up the knife and held it to her throat momentarily before dragging it down the front of the black shirt she wore, exposing her chest fully. Then with one quick movement, he sliced through the tiny bit of satin that held her bra together. Shea growled and struggled beneath his grasp. “You better hope you kill me, fucker. If I ever get up from here---”
He laughed and pulled the mask over her head and leaned down, whispering in her ear so close that she could feel the moist, warm air against her skin. “You’ll what, Shea?”
Her eyes widened in recognition of Jackson’s voice. “Idiot,” she growled, pushing him off of her. “You scared me shitless! And I’m sure Masterson heard us.”
“Don’t worry about Masterson. He’s been taken care of… call it a little present from me to you.” He smiled angelically and tossed an extension cord aside.
“So I came all the way over here for nothing… thanks Jackson.” She rolled her eyes and rolled over, searching for the knife.
“Not for nothing,” he drawled, grabbing her arm and pulling her back towards him roughly. He crawled on top of her and pinned her again. A wicked smile crossed his lips and he leaned down, kissing her slow and firm. He took each lip between his, nibbling and biting gently, then teasing her mouth open and sliding his tongue against hers. She could taste the bitter tobacco and slight sweetness of alcohol on his lips. She almost surrendered, but thought better of it.
“You cannot be serious, Jackson,” she said. “You seem to forget there’s a dead man down there. And this is his bed.”
“Who cares? You could light firecrackers in his nostrils and he wouldn’t care.” He laughed and buried his face in her neck, licking the pronounced bluish vein on the side of her throat.
“You’re so crass, Jackson.”
“But you love me anyway.” As he sucked gently at the hollow of her throat, his fingertips trailed farther south, peeling back the remnants of her bra. She tensed and pretended not to notice when he cupped the whole of her breast in his hand, massaging tenderly. She looked away when he blew lightly in her ear. But she was unable to resist him when he took one nipple in his mouth and rolled it against his tongue seductively.
“I love you in spite of your completely gauche behavior. Have some respect for the dead, will you?”
Jackson sat up and looked at Shea with a strange look of confusion. “Who are you and what have you done with Shea? Come on… I don’t have respect. I don’t have disrespect… or compassion. They’re just jobs, Shea. We were hired to kill Masterson, so he’s dead. We get our money and it’s over. Simple as that. Don’t start getting all philosophical on me, please. We’re far too close to the end.”
“I’ve heard that one before--” Shea started, looking away from him.
“This time, I’m telling you the truth. Tomorrow, I’ll take care of this last job. And we’ll be off to the Caymans. Gone. Out of it. For good.” He laid down beside her and turned her face to look at him. “I promise.” She rolled her eyes and tried to turn away again, but he gripped her jaw hard. “Don’t look away from me, Shea,” he snarled through gritted teeth. “You have to look at me when I’m speaking to you.” He kissed her forehead and nodded. “It’s almost over… you’ve always trusted me before.”
She closed her eyes and nodded in resignation.
“Good girl,” he replied, loosening his grip on her jaw, his angelic smile returning. She pulled him back to her, kissing him deeply and lacing her legs through his. She used his weight as leverage to flip him to his back and throw her leg over his hip. She laughed wickedly, pinning him to the bed this time. She knew he was letting her win dominance, but it was exciting just the same.
“C’mon baby…” she purrred, reaching behind herself to pull at his zipper. “Let’s fuck on a dead guy’s bed.”
**********************************************************
Pain hit her in the chest, exploding around her heart and radiating all over. The blood spilling over her skin and pooling in the hollow of her bellybutton. Shea gasped, clawing at the sheets and trying to get away from the intense pain. All around her the world was blue, a blinding blue that made everything else stand out in shocking contrast. All alone with her anguish, she seemed to float on the wind, writhing with this pain in her heart.
“Jackson--” she called out, hearing the sound rebound and echo all around. “Where are you? Help me-- I don’t know what’s happening…” Another sharp pain cut her off short and she doubled over as she started falling. Down, down , down. Faster and faster. She kept waiting for the ground but it never came, only the sense of falling through air and space and time. She finally came to rest on a cold, black ground. Not sure if she was up or down, but no longer falling. The pain subsided, but she could feel a hand tighten around her throat. Tighter and tighter, invisible hand gripped her throat. The breath was running short and she wanted to scream for help. Wanted to scream, but there was no voice and no one to hear. Her lips formed his name and she wanted to cry for him, but no words left her throat. She closed her eyes and waited to die, but whatever held her let go and the sweet relief of air flowed into her lungs so fast that it hurt.
As soon as she was able, she turned her head and saw Jackson lying beside her. He was naked and his skin, so white and unflawed that it looked like porcelain, glowed in the bright light all around. He opened his eyes and looked at her, deep pools of blue confused and disbelieving. She blinked and he smiled, the same angelic “Jackson smile” that always softened her heart. When he smiled, a stream of blood began to flow down his perfect cheek. A small trickle became a heavy flood and soon he was covered. His body stained scarlet. He reached out for her, his eyes pleading for help when he touched her hand.