Young Writers Society

Viggo, a disgraced cop and a prison escapee, wakes up embarrassed after a fight with his only ally, Nyssa, and a dream of past mistakes.

To know more, read Chapter 7.1.

Viggo was woken up by another bout of fever. He felt sick and a little embarrassed. He knew instantly – and was grateful – that he was alone. After his experience in jail, the feeling was completely foreign. The car was parked at the back of another parking-lot. He fumbled for the small bottle of aspirin and swallowed two pills.

When the unnatural bout of fever passed, he glanced around. He didn’t think Nyssa had been gone long, he could still smell her in the vehicle – and that weirded him out so much that he thought about driving away. Maybe he could leave her behind – and leave all the unsettling, painful feelings behind. He wasn’t that stupid. Without Nyssa, he had only one place to go: San Francisco. It was too soon, half the country would be expecting him to go there.

Plus, if Breen Cordello was still his station's captain, everybody would already be on high alert. She knew him for the stubborn, vindictive bastard he was. Maybe she didn’t know whom exactly he was after, but she wouldn’t expect him to loll around on a white sand beach somewhere.

He needed to bide his time on that one, to lay low. He had to go through the motions with Nyssa, to wait a reasonable length of time before he enacted his own plans. It was going to be all the sweetest: Russ would be expecting him.

First, Russ would realize that his old pal was somewhere out there, plotting. Then, he would find out that Nyssa was gone. Poof! Gone like that, in a cloud of smoke. It would drive him bonkers, obsessive as he was with his male pride, his ability to conquer and demean every woman whose misfortune it was to catch his eye.

More than that, he would be scared. He had made himself painfully vulnerable to her. He would regret being led around by his dick – and he would be furious once he realized that all his dirty money had been withdrawn. He would know that they had partnered up against him. He would also be aware that Viggo wasn’t done. He would become paranoiac.

It would be fun to watch that for a while before pouncing. Viggo laughed to himself. It was a pretty scary laugh, and, while he was self-congratulating, Nyssa was still missing. He glanced around again, spotted her a couple of feet from the car. She had her back to the vehicle, a hand on a tree. She was leaning against it like she was sick, a phone to her ear.

Viggo glanced at the time. Yes, Russ had to be on lunch-break.

He was curious, almost despite himself. He had gone away before those two got together. He couldn’t imagine them as a couple. He opened the door a crack, pocketing the key, and he tiptoed closer.

“…I heard it on the radio,” she was saying in a bleak, subservient tone.

“…”

“Yes, Russ.”

“…”

“I won't, Russ.”

“…”

“I…” Her throat seemed to seize on one of those easily droned-out words. “Mom's here. I've got to go.”

“…”

“No, I…” Fearful now. “I apologize.”

“…”

“I…” Mortified. “I love you.” She was quiet for a moment, then, obviously on instruction, she repeated louder, “I love you, Russ.”

Her hand was clenched in a tight fist against the tree.

“No…thing,” she choked out. “Yes, I will. Yes.”

She fell silent, but the conversation was obviously wearing her down. She was almost bent over in pain. Viggo thought it would be even rougher on her if she knew what he had overheard. He crept away, sat in the driver's seat and contemplated punching himself in the jaw.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Fuck.” He wanted to bellow it, but he was afraid she would hear, so, softly, he told himself, “You're a pig. You're a fucking pig. A pimp. Disgusting.”

Progressively, he calmed down enough to remember why he had encouraged Nyssa to go back to Russ. There had been no other way. The sick fuck went after women like a hound and, once he had them, he tore them down for his own twisted satisfaction. Going back to him had been the only way…the only thing…

Yes, that much was true. But he hadn’t done it out of kindness or to protect her. He had done it because he wanted out. He had done it to hurt her. He sucked in a harsh breath, leveled a look at himself in the rear-view mirror, “How could you hurt that kid?”

Petty revenge? Payback for her betrayal? She had turned her back on him, yes, but she hadn't known better! And now, where were they, hm? He had put her through two years of hell. Did it make him feel better? No. Not at all. There was no vindication, only a sick ache, an emptiness in the vicinity of his heart.

He had deliberately, deeply hurt his only friend in the world. He gave himself another poisonous look. “That’s just stupid.”

He was going to make it up to her somehow. Uneasily, he scratched at his swollen cheek. The way he was leading her around, how was he supposed to make it up to her?

“I'll find a way,” he swore to himself.

He exhaled angrily and glared at the dashboard, waiting, hoping for something that would improve his mood. He jumped when Nyssa knocked on his window. Her weak smile dropped when her eyes met his, and she took an involuntary step back, blanching. But, then, bravely – because she was brave – she opened the door.

“Everything's okay?”

“Fine,” he growled.

“Uh…”

“Fine,” he repeated more evenly.

“Okay.” She nodded, question marks in her eyes. She forced another smile to her lips. “Hungry?”

His stomach must have heard her because it rumbled loudly. She laughed. He couldn't suppress a twitch of his lips. “Kinda.”

“Let's go, then.”

Nyssa pulled two pairs of sunglasses, two caps and a bulky sweatshirt out of the trunk. She handed him half of her loot. Viggo stared at it, uncomprehending.

“We're going in,” she explained, thrusting her pointy chin at the convenience store.

He faltered. He didn't like it. They would be exposed. What if someone recognized them? What if there were surveillance cameras? They couldn't be seen together.

“Maybe we should play it safe.”

“Listen.” She deliberately stepped in his personal space. “The store’s old, it probably doesn’t have surveillance.” She took the cap from him and gently put it on his head. “On the off-chance, let's hide our faces.” She pushed the glasses up his nose. “We're both hungry and we can't just hide forever.”

Silent laughter shone in her eyes. The look in them, tender and amused, was oddly compelling.

“Okay.”

She graced him with a wide smile. “Thank you.”

He knew she was about to kiss him. He knew because he knew her – because he had known her. She rose to the tip of her toes to press her lips to his cheek. A shiver went through him. The moment could have been awkward, but Nyssa didn't let it. She went on with business, shrugging on the sweatshirt, tucking her hair under the navy-blue cap and putting on the glasses. Then she grinned up to Viggo, she grabbed his hand and she dragged him across the parking-lot.

The store was as decrepit as she had guessed. The oversized camera had probably stopped working in the late eighties. The restaurant sported a couple of tables near the coffee-machines. Nyssa threw two salads, a fresh fruit salad, sodas and beers in their basket. He picked a handful of magazines. He would rather have eaten in the car.

One mouthful in, he stopped caring to give his salad the evil eye. It wasn't worth escaping to eat that crap.

“Not refined enough for your palate?” Nyssa asked, tongue in cheek. He frowned at her and she laughed. “Food will get better once we get there. I swear.”

“It would better.”

She just smiled. He stared at her. She was trying hard to act like everything was normal, but she seemed shaken underneath the smiling. There was fear, sadness, shame, so many emotions hidden behind her smile. She was drawing circles in the moisture left on the table by her soda can. He grabbed her hand and she eyed him in surprise.

“It was the last time. I don't want you to contact him again.”

He hated those glasses for concealing the look in her eyes.

“Okay,” she said.

She put the cell on the table. She had already taken the battery out. She used a disposable napkin to wipe it clean. She proceeded quickly, with the expert practiced moves of a professional crime scene technician. Then, she threw it out.

He nodded his approval. She ate her chicken salad and opened the fruit salad. She nibbled on it for a while before pushing the plastic bowl toward him like it was the most natural thing in the world. He hesitated before accepting her offering. That plastic fork weighed a ton. He lifted a piece of apple to his mouth, chewed on it. It had the taste and texture of rubber, and it made him want to cry. It reminded him of all meals they had shared, of other moments of casual intimacy, of other desserts.

He watched Nyssa as he ate. The simple act of sharing was making her stupidly happy. She was trying to hide it – and failing badly.

“I didn't ask you,” he said.

“You didn't,” she acknowledged.

“You didn't tell me.”

Her eyebrows drew together. “I did.” He kept staring until she got it. “Oh.” She looked away, face whitening dramatically, two red spots spreading over her cheekbones. Her tone was low, but resolute, as she amended, “I won't.”

“Why so definitive? Hear me out first.”

She hesitated, expression wary, then mumbled, “I'm listening.”

“Answer my questions and I'll answer yours.”

She pulled her glasses down her nose, looking at him over them, eyes indecipherable. “Alright.” She tilted her head toward him. “You go first.”

He took her hand. He needed this link with her. He hated being the one encouraging her mind to wander back into her hell. But he needed to know. “The worst?”

It surprised him, how easily the words came to her. They flowed steadily, no hesitation, no spike, no harsh breathing, “The worst was getting used to it. Whenever the pain and humiliation started fading, I was afraid that my body would betray me. I was afraid I would come to crave him.”

He flinched. “And did you?”

“Not the sex, no. Not the pain either. That's what I feared the most. But I…”

“You?”

“I crave him in other ways. I've got to decide for myself – what I must do, what I will do. It's been a while and it's not…It's exhausting.”

Just the way he felt about prison. He was reminded that he still had a heart: it felt like a hand had reached into his chest to squeeze it. He let go of her. “I won't be that to you.”

“Did I ask?!” she snapped.

“That's your question?”

She tried not to smile. She really did. But she had never known how to resist, and he always watched with pleasure as her mouth twitched, time and time again, a slow grin pulling at her lips.

“No.” Her expression darkened even as light still trembled deep in her crystal-clear eyes. “Viggo?”

“Yeah?”

“What do you feel for me? Do you hate me now?” She hurried to add, “I wouldn't blame you after everything that happened.”

What did he feel? It twisted his guts just to think about it. He didn't want to dwell on his feelings. It was easier to pretend that he didn't have any. He deliberately misunderstood, “No, I don't hate you. I could never hate you. I need you to survive. You're the last person on Earth I could ever hate.”

She blushed prettily. It was hardly a compliment, but it apparently pleased her. She licked her lips, batted her eyes and a fat tear rolled from under her glasses. “I feel like you're the only person on Earth. Nobody else believed me.”

He couldn't have said it better. It was both a blessing and a curse, not to be alone anymore.

“Oh, I believe you.” He cleared his throat. “Let's go now. We can play twenty questions in the car if you still want to.”

He knew that his turn had come. He even knew what he would ask. Did you love him? Even thinking it felt wrong, so he kept quiet. He insisted on driving and she didn't argue. She gave him general directions, then she curled up in her seat and promptly fell asleep.

They drove parallel to Big Sur for the longest time. It was incredibly beautiful, even with the deteriorating weather. A steel gray ocean rolled high, pounded the coast angrily.

It reminded Viggo of a trip he had taken to Ireland for an international moot court competition. It had been held in a little seaside town in the middle of nowhere. While his friends had gotten inebriated with the locals, Peter had spent hours walking on the beach. He was his father's son and he always felt happier by the water.

It had been such a simple thing, back then – walking by the ocean, breathing in the salt, gazing out at the rolling water. Russel Pierce and the Justice system had taught him how fragile, how precious a gift it was. He made a note of that, along with sex and pizza. He would have to find a way, to find the time. He needed, deserved the simple freedom of a walk on the beach.

To know what Viggo and Nyssa will do with their temporary freedom, read Chapter 8.1.