Fic: A Man of Quality
Title: A Man of Quality
Author: Marci (cornfields)
Fandom: The Breakfast Club
Rating: NC-17 & NSFW
Warnings: Language, graphic sex
Character(s): Bender, Claire
Word Count: 6023
Author's Note: I think it's been just over a year since I first started working on this fanfic, and almost eight months since its completion. I had a little time this morning to revisit and sort of fine tune a few things, and decided it was time to post this beast and get it out of my head. Lots of thank you's and snuggles and alcoholic beverages to my beta, meinterrupted. Any mistakes that remain, including those concerning Chicago's geography, were probably added long after the fact, are my own fault, and are definitely no reflection upon Kari's mad beta skillz.
Also, special thanks to memoriamvictus for patiently putting up with my weird fandom bullshit. ;)
==
They met again, years later, by chance.
A flash, a shimmering movement, caught his eye as he pulled his flatbed onto the shoulder of the Northwest Tollway behind a disabled Mercedes. And there she stood like a ghost, a wayward angel in a designer gown, illuminated in his headlights. Even after a decade he knew immediately who she was.
He'd know her anywhere.
She was soaked to the skin, her bright hair darkened by the rain and coming down from its jeweled pins. The sequins on her evening gown twinkled still, though her designer stilettos were steeped in at least six inches of oily water. She clutched a beaded handbag in one hand, her tiny, sleek cell phone in the other. Above everything she looked lost, cold, and utterly, utterly sad.
He climbed out of the truck's cab slowly in a partial daze, grabbing his umbrella almost as an afterthought. He didn't know why he bothered, really; the rain was coming down in sheets, and each time a car passed them by, a wall of water was thrown in their direction.
He approached her, offering an almost-cheerful, "Good evening."
"Thank god," she said in her cold, strident voice. "Thank god you're finally here."
His mouth twisted bitterly at how quickly the little-girl-lost illusion was shattered. "Came fast as I could, considering," he said with a shrug, offering over the umbrella. "What seems to be the problem?"
She took the umbrella from him with a distantly grateful smile and popped it open before squelching towards the rear of the car and pointing at the tires. "Two flats," she said perfunctorily. "Front and rear."
He hunkered down to peer at the flat front tire and whistled, impressed with the damage. Icy water began running into the collar of his uniform and down his back. "That's ugly." he remarked, pointing at the destroyed chrome where it rested directly on the asphalt. A jagged strip of rubber was all that was left of its tire. "These are supposed to be run-flat. They must've been like that for a while for this much damage to happen."
"What do you mean?" she asked. "Everything seemed fine with the car when I left my home."
"That's the problem with these." He swiped water out of his eyes with the back of his hand. "There's so little drama when you do get a flat, without some sort of pressure sensor -- which this car should have -- you'd never know until it's too late."
"Oh," she sniffed. "So that's what that warning light meant."
"Yep." He fought a smug grin as he moved to check the second flat. "That's most definitely what it meant."
"I wouldn't have called you out tonight if it were only the one tire," she said, watching him inspect the second tire. "I do still have a spare in the trunk."
He laughed at her, unable to stop himself. "You wouldn't have the foggiest idea what to do with a spare, Princess."
She went very quiet. "Do I know you?" she asked frostily after a moment.
"No," he said. He stood up without looking at her and returned to his truck, angrily slamming the door behind him. He sat in the dark, warm cab for a long moment, watching her as she opened the passenger's side door and began to rummage. He briefly played with the idea of driving away, leaving her where she stood -- much as she had done to him all those years ago.
Nah. He was never really That Guy, not in his darkest moments. He was nowhere near as cold and callous as he liked to pretend, on occasion.
With a low, heartfelt curse he put the truck into gear and pulled around the Mercedes before backing into position. He again swiped impatiently at his brow with the back of his hand, clearing away the damp and the remains of his anger. Maybe his father was right. Maybe he'd always have that huge fucking chip on his shoulder. He was amazed that she could put him on the offensive after all these years.
He swung down from the cab and out into the rain, climbed up onto the bed to prepare the wench and rummage in his toolbox for the hooks and chains he'd need to secure her Mercedes to the bed. She finished with whatever it was she was doing and again stood in the rain, watching him.
"You should probably go ahead and get in the cab." he called over his shoulder. "I'm going to be a while."
"Can't I just ... ride in my car?" she asked. The disdain in her voice was almost palpable.
He smirked, dragging out the chains and fastening them in place. "Against the law, Cherry."
"Who the hell do you think you are?" she said shrilly. "You can't talk to me that way; no one talks to me that way!"
Her outrage seemed to fade to shock as he swung himself down off the flatbed and landed with a splash at her feet. She was staring up at him with wide brown eyes fringed with wet lashes, her rosebud mouth formed into an "o" of surprise.
"Hey, Claire," he said quietly, giving her a cocky smile. "Long time."
"Bender," she gasped. She raised the hand that was holding her purse and covered her mouth. "Oh my god. John Bender."
He turned to go about his work. "Surprised you remember. Took you long enough."
"Of course I remember," she said. "I'm -- I just -- I never expected-- This is such a surprise!"
"Not really." He shrugged. "We're right where we always were."
She said nothing in reply, instead watched him work with a bemused expression on her face. He wished she would just get into the cab and stop staring at him with those brown Bambi eyes of hers, and after awhile she did. He grinned to himself, covertly watching her struggle to climb up into the rig's passenger seat. She eventually had to hike her skirt up almost to the juncture of her thighs and take off her heels just so she could get a leg up onto the step rail.
He purposely took his time with the wench, fudging with the hydraulics on purpose just to fuck with her. Drawing out the process of getting her car ready for transport and making her wait had the added bonus of allowing him time to get his bearings.
By the time he climbed back into the cab he was well and truly soaked, which had done much to clear his head. Without acknowledging her or saying a word, he put the truck into gear, checked the traffic, and merged back onto the toll road.
"Where you heading dressed like that?" he asked her nonchalantly after a few minutes of tense silence.
She sniffled, and out of the corner of his eye he could see she was gazing out the window, her face turned away. "Christmas charity dinner. At the Drake." she said finally. "My husband was the keynote speaker."
"So Claire Standish caught herself a man of Quality. Surprise, surprise." he said with a tight smile. "What do you go by these days? For billing purposes, of course."
"Avery." she replied shortly. "Standish-Avery, actually."
"Mrs. Claire Standish-Avery." he echoed, drawing out each syllable with relish. "Has a very modern ring to it."
She finally snapped, swinging to face him. "What the fuck is your problem?"
He firmly refused to look at her or respond in kind. "No problem. Just making conversation."
"I'd rather not, then, thank you very much."
"Ouch." He placed a hand over his heart. "You wound me, Claire."
She turned away from him again, muttering, "Good to see you haven't changed at all."
He had nothing to say to that, as it struck a little too close to home. They didn't speak for several long minutes, the sound of rain on the windshield and the rush of highway traffic filling the silence. Finally, he opened his mouth to ask, "So what does Mr. Standish-Avery do?"
"Excuse me?" she asked blankly.
"Your husband," he prompted with a gesture. "He's a keynote speaker; I've got an $80,000 Mercedes strapped to the back of my rig; I presume he must do something important."
"Oh," she sniffed. "Yes. He's head neurosurgeon at the University of Chicago's Children's Hospital."
"Wow, Claire. You really have done well for yourself." he sneered.
"Go to hell, John." she said calmly.
"It must be killing you to be stuck here with me right now. Dirty. Wet." He reached over and plucked at her gown; she flinched away from his touch. "Your dress is ruined."
"Do you think I care?" she demanded, her voice too loud, too brittle. "If you hate me so much, why didn't you just keep on driving once you realized who I was?"
"Because I'm not like you, Claire." he said simply. "I'm not wired the same as you."
"Goddamn you, John." She was crying openly, now, but he refused to feel regret or remorse over what he'd said. "Goddamn you. I didn't need this."
He had to hit the brakes to slow the rig as they were fast approaching a line of toll booths. The line at each booth was miserably long -- long as the heavy silence that stretched between them. When it was their turn to pay, he summoned enough nerve to exchange a cheerful word with the booth operator and specifically ask for a receipt, indicating the Mercedes on the flatbed and mentioning he was On Call On A Night Like This. He had to smother a grin at Claire's muffled exclamation of outrage as the booth operator handed over the receipt.
Once they were on the Kennedy Expressway and back up to speed, she turned to him again, all Bambi eyes and ruined makeup. "Whatever happened to you, John?" she asked quietly.
He snorted. "Me?"
"Yeah, you." she said. "You just up and disappeared one day. No one ever saw or heard from you again."
His hair and the front of his uniform were fast beginning to dry under the blast from the rig's dashboard vents, and his skin, covered in a film of oil and filth from the highway, felt tight and uncomfortable. He squirmed a little in his seat and shrugged. "I'm sure you figured it out on your own; I dropped out."
"But where did you go?" she doggedly asked. "It was like you dropped off the face of the planet."
"I moved in with Uncle Tom." He pointed at the TB's Towing bumper sticker plastered on the dashboard. "He gave me a job. A rig. Help set me up on my own. And so here we are, Claire; just like old times."
She shook her head and sighed, her arms crossed over her breast. He noticed her shivering a bit, so turned up the cab's heat and nudged the vents to blow in her direction. He remembered he'd stashed his winter jacket in the space behind the passenger's seat, and reached down to retrieve it. He held it out to her wordlessly.
She stared at the proffered jacket for a moment before taking it and shrugging it over her shoulders. "Thank you." she whispered.
"You're welcome." he said, a little gruffly. "So what about you, Claire? What happened to you once I 'disappeared?'"
"I caught myself a man of Quality." she said with deadly sweetness, causing him to laugh.
"Obviously," he said once he regained composure. "I meant what happened between school and becoming some dumb schmuck's trophy ball and chain?"
It was her turn to shrug. "I went to college. Amherst. That's in Massachusetts."
"I know where it is," he said, glowering.
"I majored in public relations." she finished weakly. "The hospital offered me a position in their Oncology unit, and I accepted. That's how I met Spencer."
"Oh, Jesus Christ." John rolled his eyes and pulled onto an exit ramp. "You married a guy named Spencer?"
"It's a perfectly respectable name!" she said reproachfully.
"If you're a nouveau riche asshole." he replied.
She tried to hide it by turning away and covering her mouth with a hand, but he caught the beginnings of a smile. She then seemed to become concerned with the increasingly run-down landscape. "Where are we going?" she finally asked.
"My shop." he said. "You can call a cab -- or Mr. Standish-Avery -- when we get there."
She turned to him abruptly. "What are you doing tonight?"
He glanced at her with narrowing eyes before turning his gaze back to the road. "What? You mean besides bailing out the Chicagoland elite?"
"Well," she began hesitantly, shifting her gaze; he noticed she'd begun to fidget. "I really don't want to bother Spencer. It's his big night. And a cab is one hundred percent out of the question."
He leered at her. "Can't get enough of me already, eh, princess?"
"Please." she said, her nose wrinkling with disdain. "I'd rather die than take a cab. I was only wondering if you wouldn't mind taking me home." She blanched a little at his darkening expression. "I'll pay you, of course."
He didn't trust himself to reply. He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white, his jaw clenched. She seemed to realize her request hadn't gone over that well; she was hiding her face in the collar of his jacket.
"You've got nerve," he said at last, slowly.
"It's not like I'm asking you for a favor or anything." she said in her maddeningly reasonable tone of voice. "I said I'd pay you."
He forced himself to loosen his grip on the steering wheel and take a breath. "Fair enough," he finally ground out. "So. Where's home?"
"Barrington." she said in a tone that, had she been speaking to someone ignorant of Chicago geography, would've indicated that Barrington was "Oh, just a few blocks up the road," or "Just ten minutes from here."
John couldn't help himself; he began to laugh.
"What?" she demanded in a defensive tone of voice. "John?"
He could barely see the street through tears of mirth, but managed to turn onto North Kingsbury and make it to the front lot of his shop without crashing or causing either of them serious injury. He put the rig in park and cut the engine, still chuckling as she trembled and glared.
"Oh, Claire," he sighed, wiping away the tears with the back of his hand. "You really are a spoiled brat."
She smacked his arm sharply with her purse. "You're an asshole."
"Yeah?" He flashed her a grin. "I'll remember that when I send you your bill." He then pulled his keys from the ignition, shoved them into his pocket, and opened his door.
"Where are you going?!" she demanded shrilly, her eyes wide.
He paused in surprise, one foot on the running bar, one halfway to the ground. "We're here," he told her patiently. "My shop," he added when her expression continued to hover somewhere between bewilderment and terror.
She blinked. "Oh."
John's shop was located in the careworn, rusty industrial zone that hugged the Chicago River, just north of North Avenue. The shop itself was small and cluttered, the dark wood paneling and orange vinyl furniture indicative of the 70's, when TB's Towing had been shiny and new. It had three garage bays, and the mechanics to go with them. The gravel lot behind his shop, secured by twelve-foot-high fencing topped with razor wire, and home to three patently unfriendly Rottweilers, could hold well over three hundred vehicles. He made a very decent income from the city as an impound lot alone.
He didn't like being forced to bring her, of all people, there. He knew it wasn't the most impressive shop in the world, or in the most impressive location, but it was his. He'd earned it. He was proud of it. And he wasn't going to let Princess Claire take that away from him.
He shut and locked the driver's side door. "You coming?" he demanded sharply when she continued to give no indication of leaving the cab.
Claire opened her door after only a moment longer of hesitation. John pretended to busy himself with the shop door's lock instead of noticing her ungraceful exit from the cab. She landed in a rather deep puddle with a cry of dismay, and he barely suppressed another snort of mirth. She threw down her armful of damp skirts with a growl and stomped over to join him.
When he unlocked the last bolt and opened the door, a warning tone began to sound. He slipped inside to punch his access code on the shop's alarm system keypad and received the short approval tone. As soon as this tedium was completed, he swept his hand over the bank of light switches below the keypad, illuminating the lobby of his little shop. One of the florescent bulbs flickered weakly overhead as he swung the door open wide to admit her.
"Princess," he said with a mocking little bow. She hit him again with her purse as she entered, her expression stormy.
"The phone," he said, pointing at a land line that was mounted shoulder-height on wood-paneled wall. "The bathroom is down the hall if you need it, last door on the left. I'll be in my office."
And then he turned on his heel and left her standing in the middle of the room. He entered his dark office just off the lobby, and slammed the door behind him. Through cracks in the blinds covering the windows on the door he could see her staring forlornly at the phone, hugging her purse tight against her stomach. He felt a surge of satisfaction and then guilt at her apparent discomfort. Angry with himself, he retreated to rummage in the mini fridge behind his desk for a cold beer.
Bad habit, he thought automatically as he twisted off the bottle cap. Tom had warned him about keeping alcohol on the premises, if only because of their family's history of chemical dependence, but Tom was five years in the ground and couldn't make much of a complaint anymore. Besides, it wasn't as if he did this sort of thing every day.
And it definitely wasn't every day that he ran into a ghost from his past.
He threw himself into his chair, propping his feet on the cluttered desk in front of him and taking a healthy mouthful. On-call or no, he was his own boss, and had no intention of leaving the shop again that night. He thought he deserved a drink after having Princess Claire Standish unceremoniously dumped back into his life. He fervently wished that she would hurry up, get a hold of someone, and get the hell out of his shop.
To make himself stop staring at her through the cracks in the blinds, he turned on a desk lamp and picked up a three-year-old copy of Car & Driver and flipped through the pages as he drank his beer. Before he realized it, he was reaching for another bottle, and then another. He stared at an incomprehensible comparison chart on the same page as an article concerning SUV tip-over rates for some indeterminate amount of time before he heard someone clear their voice.
"John."
He glanced up to find Claire standing in the doorway, her expression blank. "Yeah?" he asked curtly, turning his attention back to the chart.
"I couldn't get Spencer on the line," she said, her voice steady.
He finished off his third bottle of beer, keeping his gaze locked onto the magazine. He dropped the empty bottle into the wastebasket beside him. It hit the two other bottles already resting at the bottom with a sharp clinking noise. "What do you want me to do?" he finally asked. "I'm not public fucking transportation."
"John," she began; he could hear anger and tears in her voice. "Please. I don't know what I've done, or why you hate me so much. I can't even begin to guess."
He closed the magazine, and placed it on a pile of paperwork. He sat up and leaned forward on his elbows, his hands clasped on the desk before him. "Do you really want to know what my problem is?" he asked.
She nodded.
He took a breath and said to her in a quiet, even tone of voice: "My problem is that even after all these years, even after leaving all the high school bullshit behind, you still think you're better than everyone else."
Her mouth dropped open in protest. "I do not! You don't even know me, John. How can you say that?"
"You're such a fucking liar, Claire," he said scornfully. "You know you think you're better than everyone else. If you didn't, you would've at least pretended to hesitate before asking me to drive 2 hours out of my way, round-trip, to take you home to your perfect little life, with your perfect little husband, in your perfect little McMansion."
"My life isn't perfect, John." she said hotly. "And I said I'd pay you!"
"Oh, yeah, how could I forget how you dangled that little carrot. Because everyone's got their price, right? I'm just a lowly tow truck driver, so I must be so fucking hard up, right?"
She threw her head back, face tilted towards the ceiling tiles, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes and into her hair. "I'm sorry, okay?" she said, her voice high and tight. "I asked you because I thought we were still friends. Friends ask friends for help. I only offered the money because you looked so angry; I thought it's what you wanted me to say."
"We're not friends, Claire." John said firmly. "We're not anything."
She took in a gasping breath before looking him in the eye. "I'm sorry for assuming," she said frostily.
They gazed at each other in silence for a few moments before he asked, "So what are you going to do?"
She seemed to be looking at something over his left shoulder as she asked, "Do you have something to drink?"
He was slack-jawed with surprise. "You... want a drink?"
She nodded resolutely, rubbing the dampness from her cheeks.
"Sit," he said, pointing at one of the two chairs situated in front of his desk. She did as he told, piling her damp skirts into her lap. He pulled out the bottom desk drawer and took out a large unopened bottle of cheap whiskey he'd gotten from his father for Christmas that year. "We're a little low-rent round here. I hope you don't mind drinking from the bottle."
She shook her head. "Couldn't care less."
After opening the bottle he took the first drink. Even after a few beers, the alcohol was sharp in his throat. His father would buy him the cheapest rotgut available on the market; way to make an impression, Johnny Boy. He coughed into the crook of his elbow as he passed the bottle across the desk. She took it from him without fanfare and drank a healthy measure of her own.
"You don't do this very often." she said with a wobbly smile. She passed him the bottle.
He took another drink, and this was time it went down smoothly. "And you do this all the time." he said, beyond embarrassed at the hitch in his voice.
"Lots of cocktail parties." she agreed. "Charity events. Open bars." She shrugged. "It gets monotonous."
"Boofuckinghoo." he said, without rancor. "Does Mr. Standish-Avery know how much you drink at these social events?"
She merely smiled, taking the bottle from him for another drink. They took turns several more times before he finally capped it and set it between them on the desk. He noticed it was a great deal emptier than when they'd started, but then again, he'd always been a glass-half-empty sort of guy.
"So." He sighed. "I suppose this means I'm stuck with Princess Claire for the rest of the night."
"Boofuckinghoo." she replied serenely.
He sat up straight in his chair. "You didn't even try to call your husband, did you?"
"No." She shook her head. "He's cheating on me, you know."
"Yeah?" He rolled the bottle between his palms. "How long?"
"Not sure. I just found out from his assistant. She slipped up, trying to cover for him." Her mouth twisted ruefully. "I guess I'm always the last to know."
"That's usually how it goes." He eyed her warily. "Why are you telling me this?"
She shrugged, sniffling. "You asked."
"No," he said slowly. "I did not. I asked if you'd actually bothered to call your husband; you added the part about your husband shtupping around. I'm beginning to think you're fishing for something, Claire."
She gave him a smile that was remarkably close to a smirk. "Am I that transparent?"
He nodded, the corners of his mouth beginning to quirk up. "I think I know where you're going with this," he said. "It's not going to work."
She raised one perfectly groomed brow. "No?"
He tried to glower at her. "No."
She sighed and leaned forward to take the bottle from his hands. She unscrewed the lid, brought the bottle to her lips, and tilted it back to take a long swallow. She made a face. "This -- this stuff really is awful."
"What can I say?" John shrugged, folding his hands together behind his head and leaning back in his chair. The alcohol fast caught up with him, a buzzing warmth that spread over his limbs and settled nicely in his belly. "We Benders are a real cheap bunch."
She merely smiled and took another drink before recapping the bottle. He pretended not to notice how she nudged her skirts out of the way and pushed it between her thighs, how she wrapped her slim fingers tightly around to hold it in place. He also ignored how the lamp brought out the copper highlights in her hair, reflecting warmth back to him from her dark eyes. The alcohol loosed his tongue, causing him to wonder out loud, "What do you want, Claire?"
"Nothing." Her expression was smooth, her voice impassive. "I have everything. Money. A husband. A career. A summer home." She reached up and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. "What do you want, John?"
He shook his head in disgust. "Don't make this about me. I'm not the one hiding."
Claire fixed him with a glare and pushed herself up from the chair. The bottle hung lifelessly from the fingers of one hand. "I'm not hiding," she snapped.
"I think you are," John retorted. "If you have absofuckinglutely everything, why are you here?" He pointed at the office door, his index finger a rigid, unforgiving line. "Call your husband, Princess. Go eat hors o'dourves and drink champagne and smile at all your poor rich friends and cry to them about how you have everything."
She looked as if she wanted to throw the bottle at him. "I hate you."
"Yeah?" He grinned mirthlessly. "The feeling's mutual."
Her eyes narrowed, gaze focussed once again on a point just over his shoulder. "If that's true, why are you still wearing my earring?"
"It's not yours," he said evenly. He'd been waiting for her to call him out on that from the time she recognized him back on the tollway. "You're not that girl anymore, Claire. It's obvious you haven't been that girl for a very, very long time."
She stared down at him wordlessly, tears glimmering on her lashes before trailing down either side of her face. She approached him slowly, brandishing the bottle like one would a weapon, until she was standing so close that he could feel the damp heat rolling off of her. She smelled like rain and whiskey and expensive perfume.
"What do you want, Claire?" he repeated, his tone edgy. He tilted his head back to meet her stormy gaze. "Do you want to hit me, shout at me, tell me how much of a loser asshole I am?"
"No," she whispered, setting the bottle down on the desk in front of him. "I want you to touch me."
He watched in stunned silence as she grasped his wrist with smooth, cool fingers and pulled it up to press his palm flat against the rise of one breast. His fingers involuntarily dug into her creamy skin, and he swallowed before opening his mouth to reply. "You're drunk."
"Maybe. Maybe you are, too." She bared her teeth, flashing him an unpleasant smile. "But it's what I want."
He stood, prick already as hard as the touch of his hand on her breast, and she looked up at him with grim expectation. "It doesn't change anything."
"I know," she said.
"And don't get any crazy ideas about this earning you a discount."
There was a genuine flash of humor behind her eyes. "Not a chance."
And then he bent to kiss her.
Nothing about that kiss was delicate or gentle, and he was sure his hands were bruising her, leaving hand-shaped shadows beneath her translucent skin. In marking her, it made her seem more real, more immediate, less Mrs. Standish-Avery the cold and distant, the unattainable. She had been perfect even when soaked by the rain, even with her make up smudged by tears. Now he pressed his lips and his calloused hands against every inch of bare skin he could reach and molded her back into the girl she was in the file closet with him all those years ago.
Her hands were at his belt, making quick work of the buckle before moving on to the button and zipper. The hand that slid into his boxers and grasped his cock was cool and capable; he could feel the edge of her wedding ring, sharp against the sensitive underside, serving to remind him that neither of them were seventeen anymore.
He pushed her back against the the desk, disrupting a rolodex and a stack of green and white Service Reports from the office's old dot matrix. There was the sound a ripping fabric, and a muffled groan of dismay as he slid a knee between her thighs and forced them apart. "Thought you didn't care about the dress, Cherry," he murmured.
"I don't," she insisted breathlessly. "Don't stop."
He obliged by placing both hands on her thighs and pushing the ripped skirt up to her hips and out of his way, unexpectedly presenting himself with the thatch of red curls at her center. He paused, gazing down at her in amused surprise.
"What?" she snapped, hitting him on the shoulder with her free hand. The other had loosened its grip on his shaft. "Don't look at me like that."
"Holy shit." He chuckled, leering at her. "You've come prepared. Please, Claire -- please don't tell me you make a habit of fucking the help."
"Fuck you, John," she seethed. There was a furious glint in her eyes, one bordering on dangerous.
"I was getting to that part," he said with a smirk. "Do you always free-ball it, then? Give your girl down there lots of fresh air? Dress her up, take her out?"
She fisted her free hand in his hair and yanked him toward her, kissing him fiercely to shut him up. He laughed into her mouth, his hands grasping her hips and pulling her so she was perched on the very edge of the desk. She hurriedly pushed his boxers down off his hips and took his cock in hand once again, guiding him to her entrance.
In one slick, sliding movement he was completely buried in the wet heat between her thighs. She tilted her hips upward in a rhythm that matched that of his thrusting and bit down on his bottom lip, hard. He pulled his mouth from hers with a glare, sucking on his injured lip and tasting blood.
"I bet ol' Spence doesn't like to play rough, does he?" he said viciously, grinding his pelvic bone hard against hers. She squeezed her eyes closed with a wordless cry, her hands fisted in the striped material of his shirt. "Bet he treats you like a porcelain doll."
"No," she gasped, eyes still shut tight. Tears leaked from beneath her lashes. "Just. Shut. Up."
"When -- when have I ever?" He said with breathless mirth, a hand dropping to grope her ass and pull her against him harder. "Shutting up's not in my -- my repertoire."
Claire's fingernails dug deep into his neck and shoulders, and any reply she may have wanted to make was cut short by her own unintelligible cries. Her pussy gripped his cock tightly, an undulating pressure as he stroked deeply into her again and again. A shower of paperwork and magazines fell in a cascade from the desktop, joining the broken rolodex on the office floor.
He could tell she was close, and reached between their bodies to press and rub her clit with the ball of his thumb. She keened and nipped his neck none-too-gently. Just a few circling strokes of his thumb sent her veering sharply over the edge, her muscles milking his cock and triggering his own blinding release. He closed his eyes and groaned, his head dropping onto her shoulder as he rode out his orgasm.
"Thank you," Claire murmured. She kissed his neck to soothe the skin she'd caught with her teeth, and he shivered at the memory of how she'd kissed him there once before so many years ago.
"Yeah," he said, pulling back slightly to meet her gaze. Her eyes were large and dark, and very, very sad. "Likewise."
She placed a hand against his chest and pushed him back gently so he slipped out of her. She slid off the desktop and stood, swaying a little before he took hold her elbow to steady her. She flashed him an embarrassed smile as he released her to pull up his boxers and re-button his slacks.
"Do you want me to call a cab?" she asked him quietly.
"Nah," he said with a shrug. "Not on my account. You can stay, or you can go; your pick. I've got a bed set up in the back, if you decide to stay. I'll drive you home in the morning."
Her gaze shifted away from his. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it."
Claire followed behind him silently as he lead her to the tiny bedroom at end of the hall. He hit the wall switch and a bedside lamp bathed the room in light. A twin bed was pushed against the wall, the painted cinderblock wallpapered with several decade's worth of Playboy and Hustler centerfolds. The beside table held the lamp and a tall stack of custom car magazines, as well as a few careworn Louis L'Amour paperback novels.
"Home sweet home." Noting the look on her face, he added, "I know it's not the Drake, but it's clean and it's a bed."
"Is this where you live?" she wondered out loud, her tone incredulous.
"Don't you go feeling sorry for me, Princess," he said irritably. "This is home when me, or one of my other guys, is on call. I know it's gotta be hard for you to wrap your pretty little head around, but I got myself a nice place on the other side of the river."
"Sorry." Her voice was very small. "I didn't mean--"
"Yeah, well, whatever," he interrupted, making a curt gesture. "The bathroom is across the hall if you need it. I'll be in my office."
She took a step toward him, her expression dismayed. "You're sleeping in your office?"
He shrugged. "Not like I haven't before."
"Oh." She looked around the small room again. "Well, thanks. I appreciate all you've done." He smirked, and she rolled her eyes. "I mean it, John."
"Don't thank me yet, Claire," he said, still wearing the smirk. "Just wait 'til you get my bill."
"I can afford you," she said with irritating nonchalance.
His smile tightened. "I know."
Author: Marci (cornfields)
Fandom: The Breakfast Club
Rating: NC-17 & NSFW
Warnings: Language, graphic sex
Character(s): Bender, Claire
Word Count: 6023
Author's Note: I think it's been just over a year since I first started working on this fanfic, and almost eight months since its completion. I had a little time this morning to revisit and sort of fine tune a few things, and decided it was time to post this beast and get it out of my head. Lots of thank you's and snuggles and alcoholic beverages to my beta, meinterrupted. Any mistakes that remain, including those concerning Chicago's geography, were probably added long after the fact, are my own fault, and are definitely no reflection upon Kari's mad beta skillz.
Also, special thanks to memoriamvictus for patiently putting up with my weird fandom bullshit. ;)
==
They met again, years later, by chance.
A flash, a shimmering movement, caught his eye as he pulled his flatbed onto the shoulder of the Northwest Tollway behind a disabled Mercedes. And there she stood like a ghost, a wayward angel in a designer gown, illuminated in his headlights. Even after a decade he knew immediately who she was.
He'd know her anywhere.
She was soaked to the skin, her bright hair darkened by the rain and coming down from its jeweled pins. The sequins on her evening gown twinkled still, though her designer stilettos were steeped in at least six inches of oily water. She clutched a beaded handbag in one hand, her tiny, sleek cell phone in the other. Above everything she looked lost, cold, and utterly, utterly sad.
He climbed out of the truck's cab slowly in a partial daze, grabbing his umbrella almost as an afterthought. He didn't know why he bothered, really; the rain was coming down in sheets, and each time a car passed them by, a wall of water was thrown in their direction.
He approached her, offering an almost-cheerful, "Good evening."
"Thank god," she said in her cold, strident voice. "Thank god you're finally here."
His mouth twisted bitterly at how quickly the little-girl-lost illusion was shattered. "Came fast as I could, considering," he said with a shrug, offering over the umbrella. "What seems to be the problem?"
She took the umbrella from him with a distantly grateful smile and popped it open before squelching towards the rear of the car and pointing at the tires. "Two flats," she said perfunctorily. "Front and rear."
He hunkered down to peer at the flat front tire and whistled, impressed with the damage. Icy water began running into the collar of his uniform and down his back. "That's ugly." he remarked, pointing at the destroyed chrome where it rested directly on the asphalt. A jagged strip of rubber was all that was left of its tire. "These are supposed to be run-flat. They must've been like that for a while for this much damage to happen."
"What do you mean?" she asked. "Everything seemed fine with the car when I left my home."
"That's the problem with these." He swiped water out of his eyes with the back of his hand. "There's so little drama when you do get a flat, without some sort of pressure sensor -- which this car should have -- you'd never know until it's too late."
"Oh," she sniffed. "So that's what that warning light meant."
"Yep." He fought a smug grin as he moved to check the second flat. "That's most definitely what it meant."
"I wouldn't have called you out tonight if it were only the one tire," she said, watching him inspect the second tire. "I do still have a spare in the trunk."
He laughed at her, unable to stop himself. "You wouldn't have the foggiest idea what to do with a spare, Princess."
She went very quiet. "Do I know you?" she asked frostily after a moment.
"No," he said. He stood up without looking at her and returned to his truck, angrily slamming the door behind him. He sat in the dark, warm cab for a long moment, watching her as she opened the passenger's side door and began to rummage. He briefly played with the idea of driving away, leaving her where she stood -- much as she had done to him all those years ago.
Nah. He was never really That Guy, not in his darkest moments. He was nowhere near as cold and callous as he liked to pretend, on occasion.
With a low, heartfelt curse he put the truck into gear and pulled around the Mercedes before backing into position. He again swiped impatiently at his brow with the back of his hand, clearing away the damp and the remains of his anger. Maybe his father was right. Maybe he'd always have that huge fucking chip on his shoulder. He was amazed that she could put him on the offensive after all these years.
He swung down from the cab and out into the rain, climbed up onto the bed to prepare the wench and rummage in his toolbox for the hooks and chains he'd need to secure her Mercedes to the bed. She finished with whatever it was she was doing and again stood in the rain, watching him.
"You should probably go ahead and get in the cab." he called over his shoulder. "I'm going to be a while."
"Can't I just ... ride in my car?" she asked. The disdain in her voice was almost palpable.
He smirked, dragging out the chains and fastening them in place. "Against the law, Cherry."
"Who the hell do you think you are?" she said shrilly. "You can't talk to me that way; no one talks to me that way!"
Her outrage seemed to fade to shock as he swung himself down off the flatbed and landed with a splash at her feet. She was staring up at him with wide brown eyes fringed with wet lashes, her rosebud mouth formed into an "o" of surprise.
"Hey, Claire," he said quietly, giving her a cocky smile. "Long time."
"Bender," she gasped. She raised the hand that was holding her purse and covered her mouth. "Oh my god. John Bender."
He turned to go about his work. "Surprised you remember. Took you long enough."
"Of course I remember," she said. "I'm -- I just -- I never expected-- This is such a surprise!"
"Not really." He shrugged. "We're right where we always were."
She said nothing in reply, instead watched him work with a bemused expression on her face. He wished she would just get into the cab and stop staring at him with those brown Bambi eyes of hers, and after awhile she did. He grinned to himself, covertly watching her struggle to climb up into the rig's passenger seat. She eventually had to hike her skirt up almost to the juncture of her thighs and take off her heels just so she could get a leg up onto the step rail.
He purposely took his time with the wench, fudging with the hydraulics on purpose just to fuck with her. Drawing out the process of getting her car ready for transport and making her wait had the added bonus of allowing him time to get his bearings.
By the time he climbed back into the cab he was well and truly soaked, which had done much to clear his head. Without acknowledging her or saying a word, he put the truck into gear, checked the traffic, and merged back onto the toll road.
"Where you heading dressed like that?" he asked her nonchalantly after a few minutes of tense silence.
She sniffled, and out of the corner of his eye he could see she was gazing out the window, her face turned away. "Christmas charity dinner. At the Drake." she said finally. "My husband was the keynote speaker."
"So Claire Standish caught herself a man of Quality. Surprise, surprise." he said with a tight smile. "What do you go by these days? For billing purposes, of course."
"Avery." she replied shortly. "Standish-Avery, actually."
"Mrs. Claire Standish-Avery." he echoed, drawing out each syllable with relish. "Has a very modern ring to it."
She finally snapped, swinging to face him. "What the fuck is your problem?"
He firmly refused to look at her or respond in kind. "No problem. Just making conversation."
"I'd rather not, then, thank you very much."
"Ouch." He placed a hand over his heart. "You wound me, Claire."
She turned away from him again, muttering, "Good to see you haven't changed at all."
He had nothing to say to that, as it struck a little too close to home. They didn't speak for several long minutes, the sound of rain on the windshield and the rush of highway traffic filling the silence. Finally, he opened his mouth to ask, "So what does Mr. Standish-Avery do?"
"Excuse me?" she asked blankly.
"Your husband," he prompted with a gesture. "He's a keynote speaker; I've got an $80,000 Mercedes strapped to the back of my rig; I presume he must do something important."
"Oh," she sniffed. "Yes. He's head neurosurgeon at the University of Chicago's Children's Hospital."
"Wow, Claire. You really have done well for yourself." he sneered.
"Go to hell, John." she said calmly.
"It must be killing you to be stuck here with me right now. Dirty. Wet." He reached over and plucked at her gown; she flinched away from his touch. "Your dress is ruined."
"Do you think I care?" she demanded, her voice too loud, too brittle. "If you hate me so much, why didn't you just keep on driving once you realized who I was?"
"Because I'm not like you, Claire." he said simply. "I'm not wired the same as you."
"Goddamn you, John." She was crying openly, now, but he refused to feel regret or remorse over what he'd said. "Goddamn you. I didn't need this."
He had to hit the brakes to slow the rig as they were fast approaching a line of toll booths. The line at each booth was miserably long -- long as the heavy silence that stretched between them. When it was their turn to pay, he summoned enough nerve to exchange a cheerful word with the booth operator and specifically ask for a receipt, indicating the Mercedes on the flatbed and mentioning he was On Call On A Night Like This. He had to smother a grin at Claire's muffled exclamation of outrage as the booth operator handed over the receipt.
Once they were on the Kennedy Expressway and back up to speed, she turned to him again, all Bambi eyes and ruined makeup. "Whatever happened to you, John?" she asked quietly.
He snorted. "Me?"
"Yeah, you." she said. "You just up and disappeared one day. No one ever saw or heard from you again."
His hair and the front of his uniform were fast beginning to dry under the blast from the rig's dashboard vents, and his skin, covered in a film of oil and filth from the highway, felt tight and uncomfortable. He squirmed a little in his seat and shrugged. "I'm sure you figured it out on your own; I dropped out."
"But where did you go?" she doggedly asked. "It was like you dropped off the face of the planet."
"I moved in with Uncle Tom." He pointed at the TB's Towing bumper sticker plastered on the dashboard. "He gave me a job. A rig. Help set me up on my own. And so here we are, Claire; just like old times."
She shook her head and sighed, her arms crossed over her breast. He noticed her shivering a bit, so turned up the cab's heat and nudged the vents to blow in her direction. He remembered he'd stashed his winter jacket in the space behind the passenger's seat, and reached down to retrieve it. He held it out to her wordlessly.
She stared at the proffered jacket for a moment before taking it and shrugging it over her shoulders. "Thank you." she whispered.
"You're welcome." he said, a little gruffly. "So what about you, Claire? What happened to you once I 'disappeared?'"
"I caught myself a man of Quality." she said with deadly sweetness, causing him to laugh.
"Obviously," he said once he regained composure. "I meant what happened between school and becoming some dumb schmuck's trophy ball and chain?"
It was her turn to shrug. "I went to college. Amherst. That's in Massachusetts."
"I know where it is," he said, glowering.
"I majored in public relations." she finished weakly. "The hospital offered me a position in their Oncology unit, and I accepted. That's how I met Spencer."
"Oh, Jesus Christ." John rolled his eyes and pulled onto an exit ramp. "You married a guy named Spencer?"
"It's a perfectly respectable name!" she said reproachfully.
"If you're a nouveau riche asshole." he replied.
She tried to hide it by turning away and covering her mouth with a hand, but he caught the beginnings of a smile. She then seemed to become concerned with the increasingly run-down landscape. "Where are we going?" she finally asked.
"My shop." he said. "You can call a cab -- or Mr. Standish-Avery -- when we get there."
She turned to him abruptly. "What are you doing tonight?"
He glanced at her with narrowing eyes before turning his gaze back to the road. "What? You mean besides bailing out the Chicagoland elite?"
"Well," she began hesitantly, shifting her gaze; he noticed she'd begun to fidget. "I really don't want to bother Spencer. It's his big night. And a cab is one hundred percent out of the question."
He leered at her. "Can't get enough of me already, eh, princess?"
"Please." she said, her nose wrinkling with disdain. "I'd rather die than take a cab. I was only wondering if you wouldn't mind taking me home." She blanched a little at his darkening expression. "I'll pay you, of course."
He didn't trust himself to reply. He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white, his jaw clenched. She seemed to realize her request hadn't gone over that well; she was hiding her face in the collar of his jacket.
"You've got nerve," he said at last, slowly.
"It's not like I'm asking you for a favor or anything." she said in her maddeningly reasonable tone of voice. "I said I'd pay you."
He forced himself to loosen his grip on the steering wheel and take a breath. "Fair enough," he finally ground out. "So. Where's home?"
"Barrington." she said in a tone that, had she been speaking to someone ignorant of Chicago geography, would've indicated that Barrington was "Oh, just a few blocks up the road," or "Just ten minutes from here."
John couldn't help himself; he began to laugh.
"What?" she demanded in a defensive tone of voice. "John?"
He could barely see the street through tears of mirth, but managed to turn onto North Kingsbury and make it to the front lot of his shop without crashing or causing either of them serious injury. He put the rig in park and cut the engine, still chuckling as she trembled and glared.
"Oh, Claire," he sighed, wiping away the tears with the back of his hand. "You really are a spoiled brat."
She smacked his arm sharply with her purse. "You're an asshole."
"Yeah?" He flashed her a grin. "I'll remember that when I send you your bill." He then pulled his keys from the ignition, shoved them into his pocket, and opened his door.
"Where are you going?!" she demanded shrilly, her eyes wide.
He paused in surprise, one foot on the running bar, one halfway to the ground. "We're here," he told her patiently. "My shop," he added when her expression continued to hover somewhere between bewilderment and terror.
She blinked. "Oh."
John's shop was located in the careworn, rusty industrial zone that hugged the Chicago River, just north of North Avenue. The shop itself was small and cluttered, the dark wood paneling and orange vinyl furniture indicative of the 70's, when TB's Towing had been shiny and new. It had three garage bays, and the mechanics to go with them. The gravel lot behind his shop, secured by twelve-foot-high fencing topped with razor wire, and home to three patently unfriendly Rottweilers, could hold well over three hundred vehicles. He made a very decent income from the city as an impound lot alone.
He didn't like being forced to bring her, of all people, there. He knew it wasn't the most impressive shop in the world, or in the most impressive location, but it was his. He'd earned it. He was proud of it. And he wasn't going to let Princess Claire take that away from him.
He shut and locked the driver's side door. "You coming?" he demanded sharply when she continued to give no indication of leaving the cab.
Claire opened her door after only a moment longer of hesitation. John pretended to busy himself with the shop door's lock instead of noticing her ungraceful exit from the cab. She landed in a rather deep puddle with a cry of dismay, and he barely suppressed another snort of mirth. She threw down her armful of damp skirts with a growl and stomped over to join him.
When he unlocked the last bolt and opened the door, a warning tone began to sound. He slipped inside to punch his access code on the shop's alarm system keypad and received the short approval tone. As soon as this tedium was completed, he swept his hand over the bank of light switches below the keypad, illuminating the lobby of his little shop. One of the florescent bulbs flickered weakly overhead as he swung the door open wide to admit her.
"Princess," he said with a mocking little bow. She hit him again with her purse as she entered, her expression stormy.
"The phone," he said, pointing at a land line that was mounted shoulder-height on wood-paneled wall. "The bathroom is down the hall if you need it, last door on the left. I'll be in my office."
And then he turned on his heel and left her standing in the middle of the room. He entered his dark office just off the lobby, and slammed the door behind him. Through cracks in the blinds covering the windows on the door he could see her staring forlornly at the phone, hugging her purse tight against her stomach. He felt a surge of satisfaction and then guilt at her apparent discomfort. Angry with himself, he retreated to rummage in the mini fridge behind his desk for a cold beer.
Bad habit, he thought automatically as he twisted off the bottle cap. Tom had warned him about keeping alcohol on the premises, if only because of their family's history of chemical dependence, but Tom was five years in the ground and couldn't make much of a complaint anymore. Besides, it wasn't as if he did this sort of thing every day.
And it definitely wasn't every day that he ran into a ghost from his past.
He threw himself into his chair, propping his feet on the cluttered desk in front of him and taking a healthy mouthful. On-call or no, he was his own boss, and had no intention of leaving the shop again that night. He thought he deserved a drink after having Princess Claire Standish unceremoniously dumped back into his life. He fervently wished that she would hurry up, get a hold of someone, and get the hell out of his shop.
To make himself stop staring at her through the cracks in the blinds, he turned on a desk lamp and picked up a three-year-old copy of Car & Driver and flipped through the pages as he drank his beer. Before he realized it, he was reaching for another bottle, and then another. He stared at an incomprehensible comparison chart on the same page as an article concerning SUV tip-over rates for some indeterminate amount of time before he heard someone clear their voice.
"John."
He glanced up to find Claire standing in the doorway, her expression blank. "Yeah?" he asked curtly, turning his attention back to the chart.
"I couldn't get Spencer on the line," she said, her voice steady.
He finished off his third bottle of beer, keeping his gaze locked onto the magazine. He dropped the empty bottle into the wastebasket beside him. It hit the two other bottles already resting at the bottom with a sharp clinking noise. "What do you want me to do?" he finally asked. "I'm not public fucking transportation."
"John," she began; he could hear anger and tears in her voice. "Please. I don't know what I've done, or why you hate me so much. I can't even begin to guess."
He closed the magazine, and placed it on a pile of paperwork. He sat up and leaned forward on his elbows, his hands clasped on the desk before him. "Do you really want to know what my problem is?" he asked.
She nodded.
He took a breath and said to her in a quiet, even tone of voice: "My problem is that even after all these years, even after leaving all the high school bullshit behind, you still think you're better than everyone else."
Her mouth dropped open in protest. "I do not! You don't even know me, John. How can you say that?"
"You're such a fucking liar, Claire," he said scornfully. "You know you think you're better than everyone else. If you didn't, you would've at least pretended to hesitate before asking me to drive 2 hours out of my way, round-trip, to take you home to your perfect little life, with your perfect little husband, in your perfect little McMansion."
"My life isn't perfect, John." she said hotly. "And I said I'd pay you!"
"Oh, yeah, how could I forget how you dangled that little carrot. Because everyone's got their price, right? I'm just a lowly tow truck driver, so I must be so fucking hard up, right?"
She threw her head back, face tilted towards the ceiling tiles, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes and into her hair. "I'm sorry, okay?" she said, her voice high and tight. "I asked you because I thought we were still friends. Friends ask friends for help. I only offered the money because you looked so angry; I thought it's what you wanted me to say."
"We're not friends, Claire." John said firmly. "We're not anything."
She took in a gasping breath before looking him in the eye. "I'm sorry for assuming," she said frostily.
They gazed at each other in silence for a few moments before he asked, "So what are you going to do?"
She seemed to be looking at something over his left shoulder as she asked, "Do you have something to drink?"
He was slack-jawed with surprise. "You... want a drink?"
She nodded resolutely, rubbing the dampness from her cheeks.
"Sit," he said, pointing at one of the two chairs situated in front of his desk. She did as he told, piling her damp skirts into her lap. He pulled out the bottom desk drawer and took out a large unopened bottle of cheap whiskey he'd gotten from his father for Christmas that year. "We're a little low-rent round here. I hope you don't mind drinking from the bottle."
She shook her head. "Couldn't care less."
After opening the bottle he took the first drink. Even after a few beers, the alcohol was sharp in his throat. His father would buy him the cheapest rotgut available on the market; way to make an impression, Johnny Boy. He coughed into the crook of his elbow as he passed the bottle across the desk. She took it from him without fanfare and drank a healthy measure of her own.
"You don't do this very often." she said with a wobbly smile. She passed him the bottle.
He took another drink, and this was time it went down smoothly. "And you do this all the time." he said, beyond embarrassed at the hitch in his voice.
"Lots of cocktail parties." she agreed. "Charity events. Open bars." She shrugged. "It gets monotonous."
"Boofuckinghoo." he said, without rancor. "Does Mr. Standish-Avery know how much you drink at these social events?"
She merely smiled, taking the bottle from him for another drink. They took turns several more times before he finally capped it and set it between them on the desk. He noticed it was a great deal emptier than when they'd started, but then again, he'd always been a glass-half-empty sort of guy.
"So." He sighed. "I suppose this means I'm stuck with Princess Claire for the rest of the night."
"Boofuckinghoo." she replied serenely.
He sat up straight in his chair. "You didn't even try to call your husband, did you?"
"No." She shook her head. "He's cheating on me, you know."
"Yeah?" He rolled the bottle between his palms. "How long?"
"Not sure. I just found out from his assistant. She slipped up, trying to cover for him." Her mouth twisted ruefully. "I guess I'm always the last to know."
"That's usually how it goes." He eyed her warily. "Why are you telling me this?"
She shrugged, sniffling. "You asked."
"No," he said slowly. "I did not. I asked if you'd actually bothered to call your husband; you added the part about your husband shtupping around. I'm beginning to think you're fishing for something, Claire."
She gave him a smile that was remarkably close to a smirk. "Am I that transparent?"
He nodded, the corners of his mouth beginning to quirk up. "I think I know where you're going with this," he said. "It's not going to work."
She raised one perfectly groomed brow. "No?"
He tried to glower at her. "No."
She sighed and leaned forward to take the bottle from his hands. She unscrewed the lid, brought the bottle to her lips, and tilted it back to take a long swallow. She made a face. "This -- this stuff really is awful."
"What can I say?" John shrugged, folding his hands together behind his head and leaning back in his chair. The alcohol fast caught up with him, a buzzing warmth that spread over his limbs and settled nicely in his belly. "We Benders are a real cheap bunch."
She merely smiled and took another drink before recapping the bottle. He pretended not to notice how she nudged her skirts out of the way and pushed it between her thighs, how she wrapped her slim fingers tightly around to hold it in place. He also ignored how the lamp brought out the copper highlights in her hair, reflecting warmth back to him from her dark eyes. The alcohol loosed his tongue, causing him to wonder out loud, "What do you want, Claire?"
"Nothing." Her expression was smooth, her voice impassive. "I have everything. Money. A husband. A career. A summer home." She reached up and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. "What do you want, John?"
He shook his head in disgust. "Don't make this about me. I'm not the one hiding."
Claire fixed him with a glare and pushed herself up from the chair. The bottle hung lifelessly from the fingers of one hand. "I'm not hiding," she snapped.
"I think you are," John retorted. "If you have absofuckinglutely everything, why are you here?" He pointed at the office door, his index finger a rigid, unforgiving line. "Call your husband, Princess. Go eat hors o'dourves and drink champagne and smile at all your poor rich friends and cry to them about how you have everything."
She looked as if she wanted to throw the bottle at him. "I hate you."
"Yeah?" He grinned mirthlessly. "The feeling's mutual."
Her eyes narrowed, gaze focussed once again on a point just over his shoulder. "If that's true, why are you still wearing my earring?"
"It's not yours," he said evenly. He'd been waiting for her to call him out on that from the time she recognized him back on the tollway. "You're not that girl anymore, Claire. It's obvious you haven't been that girl for a very, very long time."
She stared down at him wordlessly, tears glimmering on her lashes before trailing down either side of her face. She approached him slowly, brandishing the bottle like one would a weapon, until she was standing so close that he could feel the damp heat rolling off of her. She smelled like rain and whiskey and expensive perfume.
"What do you want, Claire?" he repeated, his tone edgy. He tilted his head back to meet her stormy gaze. "Do you want to hit me, shout at me, tell me how much of a loser asshole I am?"
"No," she whispered, setting the bottle down on the desk in front of him. "I want you to touch me."
He watched in stunned silence as she grasped his wrist with smooth, cool fingers and pulled it up to press his palm flat against the rise of one breast. His fingers involuntarily dug into her creamy skin, and he swallowed before opening his mouth to reply. "You're drunk."
"Maybe. Maybe you are, too." She bared her teeth, flashing him an unpleasant smile. "But it's what I want."
He stood, prick already as hard as the touch of his hand on her breast, and she looked up at him with grim expectation. "It doesn't change anything."
"I know," she said.
"And don't get any crazy ideas about this earning you a discount."
There was a genuine flash of humor behind her eyes. "Not a chance."
And then he bent to kiss her.
Nothing about that kiss was delicate or gentle, and he was sure his hands were bruising her, leaving hand-shaped shadows beneath her translucent skin. In marking her, it made her seem more real, more immediate, less Mrs. Standish-Avery the cold and distant, the unattainable. She had been perfect even when soaked by the rain, even with her make up smudged by tears. Now he pressed his lips and his calloused hands against every inch of bare skin he could reach and molded her back into the girl she was in the file closet with him all those years ago.
Her hands were at his belt, making quick work of the buckle before moving on to the button and zipper. The hand that slid into his boxers and grasped his cock was cool and capable; he could feel the edge of her wedding ring, sharp against the sensitive underside, serving to remind him that neither of them were seventeen anymore.
He pushed her back against the the desk, disrupting a rolodex and a stack of green and white Service Reports from the office's old dot matrix. There was the sound a ripping fabric, and a muffled groan of dismay as he slid a knee between her thighs and forced them apart. "Thought you didn't care about the dress, Cherry," he murmured.
"I don't," she insisted breathlessly. "Don't stop."
He obliged by placing both hands on her thighs and pushing the ripped skirt up to her hips and out of his way, unexpectedly presenting himself with the thatch of red curls at her center. He paused, gazing down at her in amused surprise.
"What?" she snapped, hitting him on the shoulder with her free hand. The other had loosened its grip on his shaft. "Don't look at me like that."
"Holy shit." He chuckled, leering at her. "You've come prepared. Please, Claire -- please don't tell me you make a habit of fucking the help."
"Fuck you, John," she seethed. There was a furious glint in her eyes, one bordering on dangerous.
"I was getting to that part," he said with a smirk. "Do you always free-ball it, then? Give your girl down there lots of fresh air? Dress her up, take her out?"
She fisted her free hand in his hair and yanked him toward her, kissing him fiercely to shut him up. He laughed into her mouth, his hands grasping her hips and pulling her so she was perched on the very edge of the desk. She hurriedly pushed his boxers down off his hips and took his cock in hand once again, guiding him to her entrance.
In one slick, sliding movement he was completely buried in the wet heat between her thighs. She tilted her hips upward in a rhythm that matched that of his thrusting and bit down on his bottom lip, hard. He pulled his mouth from hers with a glare, sucking on his injured lip and tasting blood.
"I bet ol' Spence doesn't like to play rough, does he?" he said viciously, grinding his pelvic bone hard against hers. She squeezed her eyes closed with a wordless cry, her hands fisted in the striped material of his shirt. "Bet he treats you like a porcelain doll."
"No," she gasped, eyes still shut tight. Tears leaked from beneath her lashes. "Just. Shut. Up."
"When -- when have I ever?" He said with breathless mirth, a hand dropping to grope her ass and pull her against him harder. "Shutting up's not in my -- my repertoire."
Claire's fingernails dug deep into his neck and shoulders, and any reply she may have wanted to make was cut short by her own unintelligible cries. Her pussy gripped his cock tightly, an undulating pressure as he stroked deeply into her again and again. A shower of paperwork and magazines fell in a cascade from the desktop, joining the broken rolodex on the office floor.
He could tell she was close, and reached between their bodies to press and rub her clit with the ball of his thumb. She keened and nipped his neck none-too-gently. Just a few circling strokes of his thumb sent her veering sharply over the edge, her muscles milking his cock and triggering his own blinding release. He closed his eyes and groaned, his head dropping onto her shoulder as he rode out his orgasm.
"Thank you," Claire murmured. She kissed his neck to soothe the skin she'd caught with her teeth, and he shivered at the memory of how she'd kissed him there once before so many years ago.
"Yeah," he said, pulling back slightly to meet her gaze. Her eyes were large and dark, and very, very sad. "Likewise."
She placed a hand against his chest and pushed him back gently so he slipped out of her. She slid off the desktop and stood, swaying a little before he took hold her elbow to steady her. She flashed him an embarrassed smile as he released her to pull up his boxers and re-button his slacks.
"Do you want me to call a cab?" she asked him quietly.
"Nah," he said with a shrug. "Not on my account. You can stay, or you can go; your pick. I've got a bed set up in the back, if you decide to stay. I'll drive you home in the morning."
Her gaze shifted away from his. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it."
Claire followed behind him silently as he lead her to the tiny bedroom at end of the hall. He hit the wall switch and a bedside lamp bathed the room in light. A twin bed was pushed against the wall, the painted cinderblock wallpapered with several decade's worth of Playboy and Hustler centerfolds. The beside table held the lamp and a tall stack of custom car magazines, as well as a few careworn Louis L'Amour paperback novels.
"Home sweet home." Noting the look on her face, he added, "I know it's not the Drake, but it's clean and it's a bed."
"Is this where you live?" she wondered out loud, her tone incredulous.
"Don't you go feeling sorry for me, Princess," he said irritably. "This is home when me, or one of my other guys, is on call. I know it's gotta be hard for you to wrap your pretty little head around, but I got myself a nice place on the other side of the river."
"Sorry." Her voice was very small. "I didn't mean--"
"Yeah, well, whatever," he interrupted, making a curt gesture. "The bathroom is across the hall if you need it. I'll be in my office."
She took a step toward him, her expression dismayed. "You're sleeping in your office?"
He shrugged. "Not like I haven't before."
"Oh." She looked around the small room again. "Well, thanks. I appreciate all you've done." He smirked, and she rolled her eyes. "I mean it, John."
"Don't thank me yet, Claire," he said, still wearing the smirk. "Just wait 'til you get my bill."
"I can afford you," she said with irritating nonchalance.
His smile tightened. "I know."