WC: Shirts & Skins - Part 4.2
White Collar -- Fanfiction
Disclaimer:
All recognizable characters are property of Jeff Eastin and USA Network.
No copyright infringement intended.
Title: Shirts & Skins - Part 4
- Rating: R
- Warnings: Adult content, Violence, Language; nothing explicit; no slash
- Category: Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Humor, Pre-canon, AU
A collection of loosely related stories revolving around pre-series encounters of Burke and Caffrey. Previously posted on Fanfiction.net.
Part 4: Tailspin (2/4)
Neal is involved in a gallery heist that threatens Elizabeth Burke's life.
Posted in 4 parts due to post length limitations.
Inch by inch the pair makes it a few feet down the rope.
“You’re doing great,” Neal encourages his frightened charge, his voice strained from the effort of bearing almost all of their weight on one hand.
When the shots ring out above, Neal braces himself for the inevitable bite of cold steel into flesh that fails to happen. He looks up to see Wilson stand in the open window, his gun trained on the taut rope of linen that is stretched over the windowsill.
Neal is no stranger to fear. There are moments to embrace it. Moments to allow the feeling of panic to creep into your every muscle, where it will prompt fibers to contract protectively around fragile bones and organs. Moments to let dread take over neural synapses and block pain receptors. This is one of those moments. Neal knows that he is about to embark on a short journey that can only end in a world of hurt. His single comforting thought is that his body will be between Elizabeth and whatever is waiting for them at the far end of the drop. He will make sure of that. At all costs. With that thought, and with his arms wrapped fiercely around the woman trembling against his chest, he pushes off the wall as another bullet tears into linen and the rope goes slack in his hands.
Whoever claims that your life slows down in traumatic moments is an ignorant fool. The three-punch assault on the conman comes in a pitiless quick-fire. First, the glass panel on the roof of the gallery’s winter garden yields to the impact of his back, sending shattering glass to race the free-falling pair to the ground. Second, the upholstery of the sectional positioned in the center of the winter garden, accepts his body with merciful give, permitting pointy shards to penetrate the soft microfiber more deeply than they cut through the thin cotton of his dress shirt and into the tender skin of his back. The third punch is delivered by Elizabeth’s slim body when it slams into him with crushing force, breaking his right clavicle, bruising ribs and sternum and forcefully inserting an undignified bony knee into his most sensitive area.
Neal’s eyes open wide as the powerful impact forces a soundless gasp from his mouth. His gaze through the shattered glass panel above him is met by the business end of a 9-mm handgun aimed at him from the open window two stories above. Wilson’s face contorts into a triumphant sneer as he takes his time curling his index finger around the trigger.
The rush of adrenaline that instantly fuels Neal’s stunned body propels him off the sectional. Rolling to the side, he takes Elizabeth with him, her small body still tightly wrapped in his protective arms. The bullets impact the couch cushion a fraction of a second after the pair has hit the floor. Keeping his momentum going, Neal rolls over the marble floor a few more times, stopping only when they are safely outside the shooter’s line of sight. When he comes to a halt with Elizabeth’s body above his, the frantic hammering of her fists against his chest is the first pain that registers since he pushed away from the window.
“Let go of me!” Her body squirms on top of his. The great sense of relief that washes over him at this spirited sign of life from the woman in his arms is marred only by the agony flaring up when her elbow digs into his shoulder to grind broken bone against bone in his clavicle. With a choked cry of pain he releases his hold on her and watches Elizabeth stagger to her feet. He rolls onto his side, pushing himself off the ground.
“You crazy son of a bitch!” She screams at him, her voice a high-pitched hysterical shriek. The pointed tip of Elizabeth’s high heel pump connects with his abdomen and he doubles over.
“Elizabeth.” Her name sounds like a hoarse cough. Neal stumbles to his feet and blinks away the blackness spotting around the edge of his vision. She stands facing him with a bleeding gash on the right side of her forehead, cradling her left lower arm with her right. Neal knows he is as good as dead if Peter Burke gets a hold of him.
“Elizabeth, please,” he pleads. She shies away from the hand that reaches out for her, but the conman refuses to be deterred. He closes the distance between them, wraps an arm around her shoulder and pushes her towards the door leading from the winter garden onto the back terrace. “We have to go!”
She struggles for a few more steps then falls reluctantly into stride with the man pushing against her. With an immaculate sense of direction he finds his way across the terrace and through the landscaped flower gardens that surround the gallery. Releasing the hold across her shoulder at some point during their hurried trek through the half-darkness, Neal’s hand slides down her right arm until his fingers lock with hers. Holding her small clammy hand tightly in his, he pulls her through an open gate, along half a block of brick apartment buildings and finally into a dimly lit alley behind a small convenience store.
Neal slips behind a dumpster and finally stops, bracing himself for another surge of anger directed at him. When he pivots on his heel to face Elizabeth, he is met with a calmer version of the disheveled looking brunette from a few minutes ago. Panting heavily, she studies his face with a mixture of incredulity, hurt and fury in her blue eyes. He pulls a neatly folded cotton handkerchief from his shirt pocket and hands it to her. She tenderly presses it again the cut on her face.
“I’m going to call my husband now,” she states flatly. “My phone is in my purse at the gallery.” He promptly starts digging through his pockets. His face lights up when he holds out a small handful of change for her. “Let’s do this the old-fashioned way. There’s a payphone outside the convenience store.”
==
Standing in the shadows of the alley, Neal listens to the sound of the late-night traffic in the street around the corner. Elizabeth Burke, still wearing his tuxedo coat, has taken position close to his chest, her head leaning in but not quite touching his shoulder. She is shaking from the waning adrenaline and from the cool September night creeping under her clothes. Neal doesn’t know if she expects him to wrap his arm around her. He hesitantly grabs the back of the jacket surrounding her, not actually making contact with her body underneath. She inches closer, her head now tipping against his chest. He closes his arm around her, not pulling her into him but with enough pressure on her back to assure her of his comforting presence.
“You’re shaking, Nick,” she says against his shirtfront.
“I think that’s you,” he replies and smiles down at her warmly.
“Hmm,” she hums, not calling him on his blatant lie. “You’re crazy, you know.”
“I think you’ve made that point earlier.” He casually touches his stomach.
“Sorry about that. I was-“ She searches for the right word.
“Hysterical?” He suggests.
“I don’t get hysterical, ever!” She playfully shoves her shoulder against his chest and he gasps. Elizabeth frowns. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m okay,” he replies. Elizabeth decides she may have found a worse liar than her husband, but she lets it slide. She feels him stiffen next to him when the sound of screeching tires is heard in the street. Neal tries to shrink away and sink deeper into the shadows, but her fist is keeping a firm hold on his shirtfront, pulling him with her when she steps out from behind the dumpster.
A frantic Peter Burke almost collides with the pair. He wraps his wife in his arms briefly, then steps back to check her over. He winces when he sees the bloody handkerchief against her forehead. His gaze wanders down her body, noticing the lower arm held tightly against her front.
“We have to get you to a hospital, El,” he urges, making a point of ignoring the man standing few feet away.
“Honey, I want you to meet Nick.” The agent raises his gaze, briefly making eye contact with the conman in the half-shadow of the alley. Neal takes a step back. “He was one of my waiters tonight. He helped me get out of the gallery, when those men with guns took over.”
“Well, I certainly appreciate what Nick has done for you.” His voice is bare of warmth. “I really think we should go, El.”
“But honey-“ Her eyes are darting back and forth between the two men, her face scrunched in consternation.
Peter helps her out of the black tuxedo jacket and replaces it with his tan suit coat.
“I think we should give Nick a ride.” Elizabeth tugs on her husband’s sleeve.
“I’m sure Nick has somewhere to be. Don’t you, Nick?” Neal nods.
“Yeah, sure,” he stammers, looking ready to turn on his heel and make a run for it if the agent should reach for his handcuffs.
“Good.” Peter’s face is an unreadable mask. Neal watches with trepidation as the agent takes a few steps towards him.
“I’d better be going. “ He clears his throat. “Mrs. Burke, I hope you’ll be alright. It was good working for you. Sir.” He nods at Peter and backs off, turning to leave.
“Hold it,” the other man orders. He closes the distance to the conman. Neal holds his breath.
“Don’t forget your coat.” Peter thrusts the tuxedo jacket against the young man’s chest, inching his face close to Neal’s. “Get out of my sight before I forget my manners.” He whispers from between clenched teeth.
Peter turns around and wraps his arm around his protesting wife. He ushers her out of the alley and to his car. Elizabeth throws a searching glance over her shoulder, futilely looking to locate the young man left behind in the darkness.
==
When Peter pulls up to the curb in front of his Brooklyn brownstone, Neal is waiting for him. He turns off the engine and watches the figure sitting hunched over on his front steps in a rumpled tuxedo, the bowtie dangling open around his neck. The young man’s head slowly lifts. In the pale light of the street lamp Peter can see the pair of blue eyes that try to penetrate the darkness of his sedan. He opens the car door and steps into the street. His action is matched by the man on the steps, who slowly rises to his feet. Peter walks around the car and steps onto the curb, his movements deliberate. The sound of his footsteps echoes eerily along the deserted residential street. He pauses at the bottom of the steps and glares up at Neal. The young man looks worn, the concern in his eyes sincere and unguarded. Under different circumstances Peter would have felt pity. Right now he feels his stomach tighten with contempt.
“I swear I didn’t know, Peter,” Neal pleads. “I didn’t know it was going to happen tonight.”
“Get out of my sight, Caffrey.” Two more steps deposit Peter at eyelevel with the conman. An outstretched hand across his chest seeks to stop his progress.
“Is Elizabeth okay?”
The fist that slams into Neal’s cheekbone comes completely unexpected. The second blow splits his lower lip and sends him tumbling down the steps. He lands on his hands and knees, his injuries screaming with the fresh assault. Neal scrambles to his feet, legs slow to cooperate. From the top of the steps Peter looks down on him, his face set in stone.
“She’s hurt. She could have been killed tonight, Neal.” The agent fails at keeping the overwhelming sense of disappointment out of his voice. “She could be dead because you selfish son of a bitch needed to get your kicks.” His words have to force their way past clenched teeth.
“Peter, I-“
The agent holds up his hand, demanding silence.
“Leave. Please.” Peter looks utterly deflated. “I have to pick up some things to take to my wife at the hospital. When I come back out of my house I need you gone.”
==
For the third time Peter rearranges the items on Elizabeth’s bedside table. He switches the book to the top of the magazines, moves the cup of water closer to the hospital bed and pushes the bouquet of gift shop flowers further against the wall.
“So the plastic surgeon said there won’t be a scar?” He asks.
“He said I’ll be as good as new,” Elizabeth replies calmly. “Now will you please sit down? You’re making me dizzy. I’m sure that watching your husband pinball across your room is not among the recommended things to do with a concussion.”
Peter perches awkwardly on the edge of the hospital bed, mindful of the cast that surrounds Elizabeth’s wrist.
“How are you feeling, honey?” He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I’m okay,” she says with a small smile. “How are you?”
“Absolutely terrified.”
“I can tell.” She grabs hold of his fingers with her unbandaged hand and presses a kiss against his palm. Elizabeth studies her husband in the dim light that fills the hospital room at this midnight hour. He looks overwhelmed and nervous and about as vulnerable has she has seen him. “I’m going to be okay, Peter,” she adds with a confident nod.
“I know,” he acknowledges. “But this could have ended very badly. It’s hard for me to get past that.” She sighs and entwines her fingers more tightly with his.
“Peter?” Elizabeth asks after a long moment of silence.
“What is it, honey?”
“How long are you and Neal Caffrey planning to play me for a fool?” If the light was any brighter in the room, she would see him blanch.
“What do you mean, El?” Peter stammers. He wonders if his palm in her hand is already sweating.
“You’ve been chasing the guy for two years. He’s like this third invisible person at our dinner table every night. It’s not that I’m keeping score, but some days you spend more time thinking about him than about me. Did you really think I wouldn’t bother to check out the competition?” Her pale blue eyes lock imploringly with his.
“El, I-“
“He shows up at my event wearing a fake nametag and that ridiculously charming grin that’s plastered all over that case file you keep lugging around. And he has the gall to put on the same soap opera dramatics that you’ve been subjecting me to since that vacation in Mexico,” she rattles off.
“Honey-”
“Oh, and that sad performance the two of you gave when you picked me up in the alley is not winning either of you an Oscar.”
“El, I’m very sorry.” Peter finally gets a word in. “I told him to stay away from you. I threatened him, as a matter of fact.”
“When?” Elizabeth cuts in. “When he saved you on that campground in New Jersey last winter?”
Peter shrugs and swallows hard.
“Peter, I don’t care what you think of him, but that daredevil fool saved my life today. He probably saved the whole damn wedding party when he pulled the fire alarm,” she whispers, her voice nearly breaking. “Those men at the gallery weren’t there to pick pockets.”
“Those men at the gallery were there with Caffrey’s help,” he retorts firmly.
“With everything you know about him, Peter, how can you think that he would have willingly participated in what went down there tonight? Did you ever think that he might be there to prevent the worst from happening?” Peter releases his wife’s hand and rubs his aching temples.
“Peter?”
“You’re right,” he concedes quietly. “I may have made a mistake.”
“Where is he, Peter? Is he okay?” She asks quietly.
“He was when he showed up on our front step an hour ago,” he explains hesitantly, chewing the inside of his lip. “That is, before I punched him.”
“You did what?” Elizabeth shoots upright in her bed and has to grab hold of the bed railing when her head starts spinning violently.
“Honey, please. Lie down,” he pleads, pushing her gently back into the pillow.
“Peter Burke! I fell ten feet through a glass roof with him. The only reason I walked away with just a few bumps and scratches is that that man shielded me every inch of the way. It was enough to put me in the hospital. Do you seriously think he came out of this unharmed?” She shakes her head in disbelief. “And you hit him?”
“El, Neal will get help if he needs it. He spends his life on the run. From me, remember? He’s got a safety net. Trust me. I’ve seen it in action.”
“That’s not good enough for me, Peter.”
“What do you want me to do?” He sighs in exasperation.
“Find him. Make sure he’s okay. Tell him thank you from me.” Her voice is calmer now, knowing that he has surrendered.
“Or else?”
“Or else you’ll be loved and forgiven as usually.” She pulls him into a brief kiss. “Now go. I’ll see you in the morning.”
==
Carrying a brownbag with a bottle of Ketel One vodka he picked up at the liquor store down the street, Neal opens the door to the second floor hotel room and steps inside. He traverses the narrow hallway that leads past the bathroom and feels blindly along the wall for a light switch. After some hesitance, the single-bulb table lamp on the nightstand flickers to life, spreading its insufficient glow through the small room. The full-size bed takes up most of the floor space. The only other piece of furniture is an oversized nightstand carrying the lamp and a bolted down corded phone. There are less than two feet of empty wall space between the nightstand and the window wall at the far end of the room.
Heading over to the phone, Neal lifts the handset off its base and pulls the phone cord as far as it will reach. It turns out to be a short tether. He doesn’t want to lie down on the bed, doesn’t want to rest yet. He remains wearily on his feet instead, leaning his left shoulder against the wall next to the nightstand. He dials the number that he has called every day for the past two weeks. This time his courage doesn’t fail him. The female voice that picks up isn’t hers.
“I need to speak to Kate.” He knows his call isn’t welcome, but his determined tone leaves no doubt that he won’t be deterred. The female voice doesn’t acknowledge him. His ear catches muffled snippets of an argument before the receiver is passed on. There are more muted sounds of somebody walking and, finally, of a bedroom door closing.
“I told you not to call here, Neal.” Kate’s urgent whisper is barely audible. “My mother already gives me hell for still dating you.”
“I just needed to hear your voice, babe.” Resting his forehead against the wall he closes his eyes and presses the handset harder against his ear.
“Don’t babe me, Neal.” She is clearly annoyed. “You sound like the asshole jocks I went to highschool with.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to,” he murmurs. He clears his throat and tries to inject his voice with casual levity. “How are things in Minneapolis?”
“Fine.” Her one word answer threatens to dishearten him. Neal rocks his body against the wall and inhales the musty scent of mold and stale cigarette smoke that has permeated the dated wallpaper. He is unsure whether she can sense his growing distress or whether she simply feels uncomfortable with the long pause in the conversation, but her voice eventually replaces the sound of his own breathing in his ear. “It’s still fucking hot here. How is the job with Wilson going?”
“I miss you, Kate.” Neal’s voice teeters on the edge of breaking. “I want you to come home. Please.” She sighs heavily at the other end of the line.
“I’ll call you soon. Okay?” She states flatly. Neal wants to beg, but he only nods.
“Okay,” he breathes.
She hangs up, leaving his choked “I love you” wasted on a roomful of stale New York City air.
His forehead still pressing against the wall, Neal stands for several minutes, gathering the willpower to make the second phone call that will be equally dispiriting. He dials, waits for the ring tone, then waits longer for the anticipated voicemail prompt.
“Mozzie.” Neal fails miserable at trying to sound chipper. “I know you’re screening my calls. How often can I say that I screwed up. Big time. You were right. Call me back, okay? Did I mention you were right?” He hangs up.
==
Halfway across the city, Peter exits the hospital and flips open his cell phone to make a call.
“Jones,” he greets the person on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry it’s so late. I’m about to go home from the hospital.”
“That’s okay. I was still up sorting out the mess at the gallery,” Agent Jones replies. “How is Elizabeth?”
“Shaken up, but fine. They want to keep her over night, and she kicked me out for fussing over her,” Peter explains. “Listen, Jones, I have a favor to ask.”
“Shoot.”
“Can you check on the current status of Kate Moreau for me?”
“You got a lead on Caffrey?”
“Probably nothing.”
“Any connection to the gallery?”
“An attempted hostage situation?” Peter manages to fake a surprised snort. “That’s not Neal’s MO. He doesn’t like guns any more than we do. I’m just following up on a hunch.”
“Just a sec. I’m on my laptop right now.” Peter walks through the nearly deserted parking garage and arrives at his car by the time Jones voice sounds in his ear again.
“The TSA has her on a flight to Minneapolis two weeks ago. That’s the last lead I have.”
“Her mother lives up there. Do you have that address?”
“Yup.”
“Can you look into her phone records to see if anyone’s called there in the last hour?”
“No problem. This might take a minute. I’ll call you back.”
Peter settles behind the steering wheel and turns his radio to the sports channel, catching up on yet another Yankees game missed courtesy of Neal Caffrey. His phone rings five minutes later.
“Jones? What did you find?”
“There were a bunch of phone calls made to Moreau’s mother’s house from an unlisted cell number in the past two weeks. Then about 50 minutes ago there was a call placed from a landline here in New York. The address turns out to be a budget hotel in Hell’s Kitchen.”
Peter smiles at the efficient detective work he has come to rely on from Clinton Jones. He jots down the hotel address.
“Thanks, Jones. I’ll check things out. Like I said, probably nothing.”
==
The hotel washroom is small and worn like the remainder of the room. There is a rust-stained shower stall, its fixtures caked with lime deposits. The yellowed porcelain of the toilet stands out against the white subway tiling on the wall. A long, jagged crack bisects the pattern of black and white hexagonal tile laid out on the floor. The towels on the rack by the sink are threadbare and smell of commercial detergent and bleach. The faux marble counter of the small vanity has long lost its luster.
Neal sets the bottle of Ketel One on the counter. In the sterile overhead light, the bottle provides an oddly brilliant centerpiece to the melancholy still life.
When Neal gingerly peels off the tuxedo coat and shirt he doesn’t need the dull bathroom mirror to know that his back is a bloody mess. He can feel the stinging pain of the cuts at the slightest movement. He can feel the shards of glass that are still embedded in tender skin and muscle. His left palm carefully drifts over his front. Purple bruising has begun to discolor the tanned skin in the center of his chest and is spreading down his right ribcage and flank to disappear under the waistband of his dress pants. His right arm is dangling uselessly at his side. The constant throbbing agony radiating from his broken collarbone is nipping any attempt at moving that shoulder in the bud.
Neal turns on the tap, unwraps the small piece of courtesy soap and thoroughly washes his hands. His left hand struggles with the cap on the liquor bottle next to the sink but the top eventually loosens. He pours some of the vodka into his palm and spreads the cooling liquid over his fingers, allowing it to evaporate. Turning to his side, he rests his hip against the vanity counter and cranes his neck to be able to see his back reflected in the mirror. He realizes that he won’t be able to reach all of the jagged pieces of glass, but a couple of larger shards lodged in his lower back are within grasp. Guiding his shaky left hand in the mirror’s reflection, his fingers find the sharp edge of the first sliver of windowpane. The glass is slick with blood and hard to grip. A pointy tip nicks his thumb. He is completely unprepared for the excruciating pain that shoots up his back when he jiggles the shard out of the angry wound.
By the time small rivulets of red are trailing into the sink from three pieces of bloody glass lying on its rim, Neal is on his knees and emptying the contents of his stomach into the toilet bowl. His breath comes in rapid shallow gasps as his abdominals are clenching uncontrollably. Blinking away the tears that collect in his eyes, he rests his forehead on the cool porcelain rim and waits for the heaving to subside. When it does, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and pulls himself to his feet with an arm braced against the wall.
“Fuck.” Profanity has always felt foreign to Neal. He considers it a cop out for anyone too vapid to clearly express a thought. Kate is the only exception to the rule. She claims her choice of language is an act of liberation.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he repeats. Liberation from the choking hold of despair eludes him.
Neal considers himself a glass-is-half-full type of man, somebody who can find beauty in the smallest details of a desolate situation. He counts this among his key strengths. To him, the feeling of true despair is simultaneously familiar and abstract. It was akin to an estranged brother who disappears from your life for years at a time, leaving you with nothing but a faint recollection of the history you shared a long time ago. Then one day that brother would come knocking on your door out of the blue and claim his place in your life and on your couch. Despair had once found Neal in the darkness of a cold Russian prison cell when he had begged the man behind him to close the hand around his throat more tightly. Despair had sought his company lying face down in the Mexican dust, too weak to fend off heavy boots. Despair had settled on him with every inch of falling New Jersey snow as a friend next to him lost life-preserving warmth with every billowy exhale.
Peter. Neal studies his face in the mirror and gingerly touches his split lip. A bruise is beginning to blossom on his cheekbone where Peter’s knuckles made contact earlier. Peter had hit him. Peter, who is smart and fair and anything but cruel, who would never raise a hand against somebody already beaten down. Neal hated himself for what he had brought out in the man who had saved his life once and who had consistently treated him with more than professional respect and with unwonted kindness. He detested how he had reduced Peter to someone ruthless and impetuous, someone so clearly disconnected from his true self. There are many reasons Neal wishes to make the last few hours undone. Not having to witness the pitiless, cold contempt in Peter’s eyes was on top of the list.
Neal reaches for the open bottle of Ketel One on the counter and takes a long swig. He doesn’t swallow, spits the burning liquid into the sink. He is not ready to numb himself. Not as long as he deserves every shred of pain coursing through his body. Not until he has figured out what to do and where to go from here. What does he want, the pathetic excuse for a man staring back at him from the mirror?
He wants Kate. She’ll come home. Soon.
He wants Moz. He’ll return his call. Eventually. If he begged him, Mozzie would be by his side within a day. He would rant and tell him off but he would help. Eventually.
He wants Peter’s forgiveness. He wants it despite knowing that he doesn’t deserve it.
He wants to have the courage to rid himself of the shards of glass still digging into his flesh. He is fresh out of that, still reeling from his earlier attempt.
Neal’s chin drops to his chest. He closes his eyes, unwilling to face his reflection any longer. His own smell makes his stomach lurch. The revolting potpourri of vodka, sweat and vomit mingles with the faint scent of Elizabeth’s perfume that clings to his skin where her face had tucked into the crook of his neck. It is something classic, with a hint of oleander. It is not Kate’s.
Neal turns on the shower. The pipes are shaking and rumbling behind the wall. He twists the corroded knob until the water is too hot for comfort. The small washroom steams up instantly. He strips out of his tuxedo bottoms and underwear. Grabbing the bar of soap from the counter, he steps under the shower spray. His body recoils from the assault of the scalding water, but the shower stall is too small to provide refuge. Bracing his hand against the wall, Neal lets the hot water pelt his chest. His body is slow to adjust to the temperature. When he feels capable of moving, he lathers himself with the coarse soap that takes all the sweat, dirt and moisture and none of the guilt away from his skin. The keratin fibers of his hair seize up under his sudsy hands. Tiny slivers of glass are rinsed from his scalp, the soap burning in the small cuts they leave behind. The soapy water that runs down his back takes blood and glass and leaves burning agony. Floating islands of pink foam snake down his legs and pool at his feet, before the slow drain swallows them reluctantly. It takes all of Neal’s failing courage to turn around and let his back take the full brunt of the hot spray. Panting heavily, he turns off the water, his shaking hand barely able to grip the shower knob. Reaching out from behind the shower curtain he retrieves the vodka bottle from the vanity.
When he pours the stinging liquid down his back he expects his lungs to be too winded to give him air to scream. He is wrong.
==
On to Part 4.3