InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Love's Smirking Revenge ❯ Liar, Liar ( Chapter 29 )

Love's Smirking Revenge

- Chapter 30 -

Liar, Liar

 

 

It was somewhere between dinner and dessert when it hit.

 

They were waiting for ice cream - mango for him, coconut for her - and she was finishing off her second glass of wine. It was just the faintest tremor. She wasn't sure she'd even felt it at first, until it grew stronger. The cutlery rattled atop the plates on nearby tables and the pinot noir in her glass sloshed dangerously close to the rim.

 

She suddenly found herself stuck inside the elevator at the Asahi Shimbun building, breathing in the stale air with her heart in her throat. The fear of death had been overwhelming in those long hours - each time the elevator rocked or groaned she'd pictured their broken, mangled bodies laying at the bottom of the elevator shaft.

 

Desperate for a distraction, she'd talked to him, demanding to know about Kikyou. There was an unsettling gruffness in his voice when he talked about her, and she still wondered about the memories that lay at the root of it.

 

She hadn't appreciated then what it must have taken for him to tell her that story. Why had he told her at all? Maybe he'd thought they were going to die too. Maybe he'd just wanted to get it off his chest; lighten his load before meeting his end, so to speak, and she was the most available receptacle.

 

The earthquake was minor and only lasted half a minute, but the effects lingered long after the final trembles. She was hopelessly distracted, caught up in the past when she should've been focusing on the future. Kouga was regaling her with a re-telling of his brief employ as a personal body guard for Takeshi Kaneshiro. She wanted to listen, but her mind was too busy masochistically wrapping itself around memories of how things used to be to pay him much attention.

 

It wasn't anyone's fault, and that was the hardest thing to accept about the whole sordid mess. It wasn't Inuyasha's fault for needing distance after finding out that his previous lover had been murdered in her place, in a case of mistaken identity no less. It wasn't cruel or dickish - it was human. Now that she'd had a couple months to mull it over that seemed obvious. She really couldn't say she would have acted any different herself.

 

Perhaps, in some way, she hadn't. She'd neglected to tell him about Oniguomo, an oversight that'd nearly cost both of them their lives. She'd been afraid to be honest with him, afraid of how he would react, and look where it'd gotten them. Here she was facing the exact scenario she'd been trying to avoid from the start. Naraku was probably pissing himself with laughter in whatever corner of Hell he'd slithered into.

 

It wasn't Kouga's fault either. That thought, and the guilt that came with it, pained her the most. Kouga was the nice guy, the one who'd swept in after Inuyasha left to pick up the pieces. He was good to her and he seemed to care about her, but whatever he felt for her wasn't mutual.

 

She'd tried to forget, tried to get past it and focus on the future, but was finding it impossible. This second date and the ill-advised, purely selfish decision on her part to accept it were evidence of that. She'd known after the first one that there was no spark, nothing drawing her to him, but that hadn't stopped her from saying “Yes”.

 

Her conscience went into overdrive formulating every excuse in the book for why she'd done it: she'd just had an off night during their first date; it'd been too soon after her attack and the post traumatic stress clouded her judgment; she was lonely.

 

The truth was some mix of the three with a heaping dose of “selfish” and it left her feeling like shit. Especially now that she couldn't concentrate on a single goddamn word he was saying. All she could think about was that stupid elevator, the solidness of Inuyasha's body beneath hers and the softness of his jersey tee entwined in her fingers.

 

She endured the rest of dinner by smiling outwardly at Kouga's stories and making platitudes about how delicious the food was. When they were finished he offered to walk her home. She accepted, hoping the walk would clear her head from the wine and give her time to think.

 

On the way, he told her some grand story about saving an infant from the back of a stolen car. The cynic in her was amused that he was using a baby rescue story to try and get some ass; the rest of her was too busy trying to figure out how to extricate herself from this problem of her own creation.

 

They reached the door to her apartment complex sooner than planned and he pushed on ahead without asking permission. His fingers entwined with hers and gently pulled her up the stairs.

 

She knew what was coming next. It was written all over his face - the quiet hunger, the anticipation - and she came up empty handed in her search for a way to slow things down.

 

They'd barely reached her door when he backed her into the wall. There wasn't anything subtle or hesitant about his kiss. What started off as an innocent peck evolved with a bold touch and a quiet moan into something more carnal.

 

She was only dimly aware of the wall at her back and the numb, unsteady feeling in her legs, but such small doses of reality were inconsequential. What her mind and body were focused on was the hungry pressure of his lips against hers and the scorching trail his hands left on her body.

 

For a moment, just a moment, she lost herself to the rush. It was impossible not to, especially when he uttered her name in that soft, pleading tone underwritten with desire. His hand found the curve of her knee and hiked her leg around his waist.

 

She could feel his desire pressed against her and taste the want in his kiss. Even her body betrayed her, gasping with ecstasy and pulling him closer when he discovered that one sweet spot on her neck.

 

She'd wanted this to work. She'd wanted it to feel right with him so badly it hurt. If she were any other woman, his quiet moans of pleasure would have turned her willpower into dust. If she were any other woman, they'd already be in her bedroom, half naked and well on their way to bliss.

 

But she wasn't any other woman and as much as she hated to admit it, his kisses just couldn't reach her the way his had.

 

“You don't know how long I've waited for this,” he whispered, his voice muffled against her neck, and she groaned inwardly.

 

Her hands fell away and ever so slightly she pulled back. Things had gone far enough. It was obvious to her now that they had to stop before he got hurt more than he already would be.

 

“Kouga…” she whispered, her tone pleading. “Please, I can't.”

 

Her stomach was already in knots, expecting the sort of violent outburst she was used to. Instead, he blew out a quiet sigh of resignation and slowly lowered her to the floor.

 

“I shouldn't have rushed you like this. If you need more time…”

 

He looked up and something in her expression gave her away. His features sobered instantly and he slowly nodded with understanding as he took a much needed step back.

 

“More time won't make a difference,” he answered for her.

 

At a loss for words, she merely shook her head.

 

Laughing dryly, he swiped his hand through his dark hair and gave her a pained smile.

 

“I get it. You don't have to explain. I just wish you'd said something sooner.”

 

“I'm sorry…”

 

“So am I,” he said, sounding like he truly meant it.

 

She wanted to say something consoling but somehow “It's not you, it's me” felt wrong in every way. He saved her the trouble and backed out with a brief “good night”. The heavy metal door leading to the stairwell slammed shut behind him and she found herself alone, with only the wall at her back to keep her standing upright.

 

Her meek self-reassurances that letting him go was a necessity didn't stop her knees from going weak. The realization that she was suddenly alone in the world was far more terrifying than it was liberating.

 

The thought of entering her empty, silent apartment kept her rooted to the floor. Stamping down the panic that threatened to well up inside her, she determined that she needed air and closure, both of which were waiting for her just beyond the door of her building.

 

Sucking in a breath for courage, she pushed off the wall and headed for the stairs.

 

xXx

 

Her hands were trembling. She kept them busy drying glasses and watched the clock.

 

Five minutes.

 

Blowing out a shaky sigh, Rin slipped the glass in her hand onto the holding rack and picked up another.

 

“You can do this,” she whispered encouragingly under her breath and tried like hell to believe it.

 

Nothing had felt right since the attack. It was like she'd become an impartial observer of her own life, watching her body go through the motions, robotically falling into the routine of work, eat, sleep, work, eat, sleep, without feeling any attachments at all. Any emotion worth experiencing had evaporated in the fire, leaving nothing in its place to keep her whole.

 

She needed something to help her remember who she used to be, to show her how to feel again, and this ridiculous plan seemed as good as any. It was kind of like throwing yourself into the deep end of the pool to see how fast you can learn how to swim. With any luck, she'd be able to keep her head above water. If not, well ...

 

The clock struck 10 and she set down the glass in her hand. Furukawa-san's beady black eyes were watching her like a hawk from across the club. She'd lost track of the number of times he'd told her how important this client was, and how good his patronage was for the club. If she didn't make him happy she'd be out of a job - it was as simple as that.

 

After swallowing away the sudden tight feeling in her throat, she adjusted her skirt, touched up her lipstick in the mirror behind the bar, and crossed the club to the VIP booths.

 

Now, or never, she thought grimly.

 

Plastering a smile on her face, she pushed aside the curtain to the VIP room and cheerfully welcomed her client. That was where the niceties ended. Her feet stumbled to a halt and the flirtations she'd prepared stuck in her throat. This was not the time for mindless pleasantries and he was absolutely the wrong person to practice them on.

 

“What are you doing here?” she blurted out, finding herself unable to look away. He was magnetic, pulling her in without any effort at all.

 

He lifted the canter of whisky at his side and poured himself a drink. Silent, he set it down and picked up his glass. Every move he made was methodical, never hurried or thoughtless.

 

He used to be like that at the coffee shop too, and she'd watch him for hours. Sometimes she'd make an excuse to go talk to him, ask if he needed a refill or wanted a snack, but it always left her feeling guilty afterward. There was something wrong about disturbing him when he was like that - away from the world and happily ensconced with a well worn book. It was like destroying a priceless work of art to assuage your curiosity - it simply wasn't done.

 

And what about this situation they found themselves in now? What rules apply when two souls who know each other from a past life collide in this one?

 

The shock of seeing him sitting inside the VIP booth was slowly fading, only to be replaced by a cutting sense of shame. The opinion of a stranger had never mattered to her before, but for whatever inexplicable reason his opinion mattered. The fact that he was seeing her like this made her stomach churn.

 

No one was ever supposed to know. Work was easy when she could play the anonymity card and go home protected by the belief that no one from her past life knew what she did for work. Here, she could be anyone she wanted to be (even if it was only for a few hours). But not with him. With him she was once again the scared, abused creature that'd crawled out of that fire and it didn't sit well.

 

The way he looked at her sent intimidation shivering down her spine. His gaze was cold and speculative; the safety and security of the coffee shop were gone. The sense of innocence that'd once surrounded their interactions was gone without a trace. There was nothing romantic about this.

 

“I thought that much was obvious,” he answered her, taking a slow sip of his drink.

 

His arm rested over the edge of the pleather sofa, the snifter of whisky dangling loosely from his fingers. He looked relaxed and carefree, but it was a feint. She'd seen him at his leisure and this was nowhere close.

 

Her feet decided it was time to move and she took a hesitant step forward. With a glance and a lift of his finger he motioned for her to join him on the sofa. She obeyed, feeling the oppressive weight of his presence increase with every step.

 

`It was never like this at the coffee shop,' she thought. No, that wasn't quite right. There'd been that one time, when they'd discussed their mutual love of Shakespearean literature amidst the smell of freshly baked biscotti. She'd felt it then. Something had passed between them and just as quickly it was gone.

 

She hadn't seen him again after that, and then the fire happened... There hadn't been time to figure out what it was or how to react to it, but it was here now, all around her, suffocating her slowly.

 

She swallowed, tasting fear on her tongue, and lowered herself onto the seat next to him. It didn't make sense why she was afraid of him. He'd given her no cause to be. He was aloof, yes, and quiet too, but this feeling was different, this was oppressive almost to the point of punishing. If she didn't know better she'd think he was angry with her.

 

“So I guess you heard about the coffee shop,” she hazarded.

 

He nodded, ever so slightly, and looked disinterested as he took another taste of his expensive imported whisky. They didn't specialize in expensive spirits at VOSS, which left her wondering just how much he'd paid the manager to have it brought in.

 

“They caught the guy.”

 

Her tone implied “so everything's fine” but the way his eyes narrowed at her words told her he wasn't buying it. She fidgeted with the hem of her skirt, hoping for a distraction. It wasn't like her to fidget but he made her feel strange. Being around him made her want to do things she didn't normally do.

 

His gaze shifted to her arms and lingered on the fading bruises that stained her skin shades of yellow and green.

 

“Is that so?”

 

The memory came on so suddenly it momentarily stole her voice away. The acrid stench of smoke filled her nose and above the roar of the flames she could hear his breaths, hoarse and rough in her ear. He'd chuckled triumphantly while her world had burned around her, grinning at the inferno like the Devil himself. She'd never forget that face, or the sound of that laugh.

 

Clearing her throat gently, she tugged at her sleeves until they hid the marks and found her voice, “Yeah... The cops said he was yakuza but they don't know why...”

 

His mouth twisted into a frown, just a small turn of one corner of his mouth. He stared into the bottom of his whisky glass without a word and eventually swallowed down what was left.

 

“So, do you come to places like this a lot?”

 

It was an honest question. What kind of man was he behind the expensive suits and aloof exterior? She knew who he was at the coffee shop - a quiet intellectual who liked his java black with no frills. Here though...here he was someone else, someone different. This was the world he belonged to and in this place there was a power behind his presence that she didn't understand. It had her manager doing back flips to keep him happy and that, in and of itself, spoke volumes.

 

His expression soured at her question, and he answered with a curt, “No.”

 

“Then why are you here?”

 

“Why are you?” he retorted, setting his empty glass on the floor.

 

Her brain took its sweet time formulating an answer. What could she say to that? What business was it of his anyway? Suddenly annoyed by the quiet judgement she thought she detected in his gaze, she squared her shoulders.

 

“I thought that much was obvious,” she answered, throwing his own words back at him.

He lifted an eyebrow at her defiance and she felt her stomach twist into knots.

 

His expression settled back into one of cool impassivity and he motioned for her to come closer. She obeyed, against her better judgment, and he pulled her down until she was straddling his lap.

 

“I don't even know your name,” she whispered more to herself than to him.

 

Funny how it was easy to forget simple, important details like that around him. They'd never seemed important before, but now that the idea was in her head it wasn't easily dismissed. All this for a guy she didn't even know by name. It was almost laughable.

 

He seemed to agree. He responded to her observation with an amused smirk and began unbuttoning her shirt. His nimble fingers moved with deliberate slowness, twisting the buttons open one after the other. His piercing gaze never left hers and she didn't have the courage to look away. He saw every changing emotion, every flicker of fear.

 

Her heart was hammering in her chest so loud she could practically hear it. This wasn't what she'd expected tonight, or maybe it was, but not from him. There were times when she'd thought about what it would be like to be in this position with him, fantasized about how it might be, and this didn't even come close.

 

The cool touch of his hand atop her thigh, the annoying drum of the house music, and the nausea churning her stomach kept her solidly in the present and reminded her with sobering clarity what customers in his position expected from their hostesses.

 

When he reached her bra the breath caught in her throat. His fingers lingered, brushing a feather light touch across the tops of her breasts. His lips followed, leaving a burning trail up the column of her throat.

 

“Wait...” she pleaded, feeling her head start to spin.

 

She couldn't catch her breath as his persistent fingers continued their work, twisting button after button until her shirt lay open. She resisted the sudden urge to cover herself and looked away while he took his time appraising her with those cold amber eyes.

 

“Why are you doing this?”

 

Her voice trembled slightly when she spoke and it caught his attention. He looked up at her then, his eyes met hers, and his expression hardened.

 

“Different venue, different expectations.”

 

His hands found purchase on her waist, pulling her closer until his lips met her clavicle. He nibbled at her skin, following the slender length of the bone to where it met her neck, and then slowly up from there.

 

She could smell the whisky on his lips before they met hers and the breath caught in her throat. In her fantasy his touch had been soft and certain but here it was bold and uncompromising. She couldn't even enjoy its roughness because the moment his hand wrapped round her wrist more memories came flooding back.

 

Even now, she could smell him, the musky scent of his sweat and the pungent stench of stale coffee on his breath. His upper lip had been coarse with stubble and she remembered the way it'd felt scraping across the skin of her cheek.

 

“Stop...” she whispered fervently against his lips, but he wasn't interested in listening. His fingers pushed their way up her thigh, pushing her skirt with them.

 

His touch was gentler than the other's had been - the man who'd burned down the coffee shop. He hadn't taken his time. Everything had been rushed, like he was scared that someone else would interrupt them at any moment.

 

She could remember thinking that maybe he would return to the cafe and stop him. She'd never wished for something so hard in all her life. For whatever illogical reason, when she was at her most vulnerable he was the one she'd trusted to protect her. This man, this stranger, doing as he pleased with her body because he'd paid for her services, was who she'd hoped would save her that night.

 

She started to laugh at the irony of it all, but her silent chuckles quickly turned to sobs. He pulled back suddenly and she saw that one of her tears had fallen against his cheek. She hadn't felt them fall, but they were long overdue.

 

“You didn't come,” she managed to whisper.

 

His hand dropped away from her wrist and she covered her face with her hands. He didn't need to see her like this, so completely messed up and broken. She'd been doing such a good job of hiding it. No one knew but him, and now that the flood gates had been forced open she wasn't sure they'd ever close again.

 

She couldn't bear to look at him if it meant seeing the displeasure that was surely written all over his face.

 

“You don't belong here,” he said after a while.

 

She sniffled and wiped away the tears on her cheeks with the back of her hand. She wanted to argue but no longer possessed the strength. It'd been sucked right out of her, along with her tears.

 

She didn't feel him move her, but suddenly she was alone on the couch and he was standing in the middle of the booth with a good foot of space between them. He looked pristine, completely neat and put together.

 

“The others won't be so understanding,” he added with a pointed look at the booth next to theirs.

 

The walls weren't soundproof. The moans and suggestive noises from the other side only further hammered his point home. If it'd been anyone but him, would they have stopped? She swallowed hard, thinking of how differently things might have turned out.

 

She'd been wrong before. He had come for her; he was just a little late was all.

 

He took his time pouring himself another drink and swallowing it down while she did up the buttons of her shirt. He didn't look at her once, keeping his eyes trained on the tacky art that'd been hung on the wall instead.

 

When she was dressed, he set his empty snifter down on the table and shrugged easily into his jacket. She waited, uncertain what to expect from him next. He briefly looked her over, his expression unreadable.

 

“Stay if you like. I have a car waiting.”

 

The curtains swung with his departure and she watched him leave the club through the small crack between them.

 

She didn't know what to think anymore. She felt violated and numb, but a part of her wanted to cry with relief. This stranger, this dangerous creature she didn't know from Adam was offering her a way out. The question was should she take it?

 

For all she knew, he was a serial killer, or a pervert. Or maybe he was just some guy. Anything was possible, though she found it hard to believe anyone could use the phrase “just some guy” to describe him.

 

It could have been minutes or hours before her body rose up off the couch and exited the VIP booth. Without really thinking about it, she grabbed her jacket and purse from behind the bar. No one said a word, but she could feel their eyes on her as she exited the club. Whatever happened after tonight, she'd never be allowed back at VOSS and that was fine. There wasn't a single part of her that felt broken up over it.

 

A car was waiting in front of the club, just like he'd said. He was inside, and didn't look the least bit surprised when she opened the door and slid onto the seat next to him. She couldn't face him just yet, but that didn't seem to matter. The moment the door closed behind her, he relaxed back against the leather seat and instructed the driver to take them home.

 

 

Author's Note: Where to begin? Maybe with an apology.

 

I'm sorry this chapter has taken so long to come out. Life is more than a little busy here - I've been touring around Japan, climbing mountains (Fuji Climb 2010!) and working 5 jobs. No, that's not a typo. I really have 5 jobs. Anyway, it's been difficult to find time to write but I think I've finally figured out a schedule that'll work so please bear with me :)

 

In the meantime, I want to extend a special thank you to my loyal supporters. Your reviews and messages have been incredible to read. They really do give me a boost when I need it most. Hopefully it won't be long before you hear from me again.

 

All the best,

 

Langus