Dead Hostage, part 2. Before the screenplay.
[ *Dynastic note: Greetings! So that you aren’t blindsided: There is profanity (not on purpose, that’s how the characters played out), adverbs, adjectives, exclamation points, and probably syntax problems (this is vintage Queen way back in the day, still learning her craft). I hope it doesn’t offend; I hope it does entertain. Thanks for giving me a read. ]
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She had no idea how long she’d been at it, but she knew that the crying and hiccoughing had to stop. Men loved to see women do that. It assured them of their damned superiority.
Ivy slapped her tears away. Brought her bent legs together and lowered her forehead to the torn knees of her jeans. You’d better get a grip quick, girlfriend. You have seriously fucked up. This isn’t TV and it’s no time to bring on an asthma attack. Can’t you do anything right?
Her face felt hotter than fish grease. Her head ached like no tomorrow. After a moment, the contractions in her lungs and throat subsided-good. No need to bring out the Primatene Mist. She felt eyes on her, and glanced up.
He was staring at her. Probably judging her, as if he had a right to.
She frowned. Look at him layin' there, scared shitless. Perfect hair, fancy-ass clothes and shoes. Mr. Tom Cruise. Bet he’s never worked a day in his damn life. “What the hell’re you looking at?” Suddenly self-conscious, she tried to smooth her wild hair with her fingers. Probably look like I’ve been dragged about a mile. So damn what?
“What are you going to do with me?”
Was this guy for real? “Figure it out.” A derisive laugh left her dry throat.
Truth was, she didn’t know herself.
Have to secure the place. Keep the cops out. They didn’t understand and they sure as hell couldn’t be trusted. Ivy scrambled up, .38 clutched, and jammed a straight-backed chair beneath the flimsy door knob. A high stool would serve as a lookout post beside the picture window. Room 29 was on the corner of a building. She could see in all directions. No one would be sneaking up on her here.
Gotta get out of this. Can’t go to jail. My kids. There’s nobody to take care of them if I don’t. Damn you, Eddie. I hope you rot in hell. She stumbled to the bathroom, laid the gun on the side of the free-standing sink with its lime-deposited faucet. Splashed cold water on her burning face. Tried to calm her pulse. The mirror reflected swollen eyes shot with red, a bloodless 32-year-old complexion, brown roots showing beneath straw-blonde strands. Marilyn Monroe she wasn’t.
Ivy thought she heard a noise. She rushed from the bathroom, lips tight, almost scattering the pile of liquor store money with a foot. Cruise look-a-like was sitting up on the double bed now, his back to the headboard, his narrow ass squashing the pillow down flat. Still looked scared shitless. Great. That meant he probably wouldn’t try anything heroic.
His room key had been lying on the dashboard of his expensive car. The Rain Water Motel. What was a rich boy doing in their little town, in a ratty dump like this? The particle board furniture was all but falling apart. No carpeting, no curtains, just ugly white blinds. No room service. Only the shitty little black-and-white TV he’d left on.
The suitcase and garment bag over by the radiator looked like that ritzy designer stuff in magazines. There was also a smart black briefcase with a golden Versace label-he could be a businessman. A really young businessman. That was it. He was passing through, on his way to... where?
The cops were shouting again.
Stomach in her throat, Ivy peeked through the blinds, careful not to reveal herself. The parking lot resembled a circus, but the police were staying back. For how long? She stroked her cheek with the cold gun-Eddie’s gun-and turned towards the bed.
“Gimme your wallet, Rich Boy.” Let’s find out who you are.
He looked startled by that and didn’t move. His sandy hair had fallen into his hazel eyes.
“You got a free hand, don’t you? I said gimme your wallet.”
“Why?”
“Look. I’ve got a pile of cash over there big enough to choke a horse. I sure as hell don’t need yours.” She scowled at him.
“Okay, okay. Just don’t shoot.”
The assurance that he wouldn’t be robbed seemed to calm the guy. Her scowl turned into disgust. Stupid yuppie. As if he would really miss any money out of the damn wallet anyway. He dug beneath himself, into the back pocket of the meticulously-pressed khaki trousers that coordinated with his summer cardigan, white Polo shirt, and shiny loafers. Ugh... loser. He held the wallet out with a hesitant hand.
Ivy approached him. Reached for it.
She didn’t realize the fool would try anything until he had yanked her down on the bed by her thin wrist.
______________
More to come, dah-links. Tah.
_______________
She had no idea how long she’d been at it, but she knew that the crying and hiccoughing had to stop. Men loved to see women do that. It assured them of their damned superiority.
Ivy slapped her tears away. Brought her bent legs together and lowered her forehead to the torn knees of her jeans. You’d better get a grip quick, girlfriend. You have seriously fucked up. This isn’t TV and it’s no time to bring on an asthma attack. Can’t you do anything right?
Her face felt hotter than fish grease. Her head ached like no tomorrow. After a moment, the contractions in her lungs and throat subsided-good. No need to bring out the Primatene Mist. She felt eyes on her, and glanced up.
He was staring at her. Probably judging her, as if he had a right to.
She frowned. Look at him layin' there, scared shitless. Perfect hair, fancy-ass clothes and shoes. Mr. Tom Cruise. Bet he’s never worked a day in his damn life. “What the hell’re you looking at?” Suddenly self-conscious, she tried to smooth her wild hair with her fingers. Probably look like I’ve been dragged about a mile. So damn what?
“What are you going to do with me?”
Was this guy for real? “Figure it out.” A derisive laugh left her dry throat.
Truth was, she didn’t know herself.
Have to secure the place. Keep the cops out. They didn’t understand and they sure as hell couldn’t be trusted. Ivy scrambled up, .38 clutched, and jammed a straight-backed chair beneath the flimsy door knob. A high stool would serve as a lookout post beside the picture window. Room 29 was on the corner of a building. She could see in all directions. No one would be sneaking up on her here.
Gotta get out of this. Can’t go to jail. My kids. There’s nobody to take care of them if I don’t. Damn you, Eddie. I hope you rot in hell. She stumbled to the bathroom, laid the gun on the side of the free-standing sink with its lime-deposited faucet. Splashed cold water on her burning face. Tried to calm her pulse. The mirror reflected swollen eyes shot with red, a bloodless 32-year-old complexion, brown roots showing beneath straw-blonde strands. Marilyn Monroe she wasn’t.
Ivy thought she heard a noise. She rushed from the bathroom, lips tight, almost scattering the pile of liquor store money with a foot. Cruise look-a-like was sitting up on the double bed now, his back to the headboard, his narrow ass squashing the pillow down flat. Still looked scared shitless. Great. That meant he probably wouldn’t try anything heroic.
His room key had been lying on the dashboard of his expensive car. The Rain Water Motel. What was a rich boy doing in their little town, in a ratty dump like this? The particle board furniture was all but falling apart. No carpeting, no curtains, just ugly white blinds. No room service. Only the shitty little black-and-white TV he’d left on.
The suitcase and garment bag over by the radiator looked like that ritzy designer stuff in magazines. There was also a smart black briefcase with a golden Versace label-he could be a businessman. A really young businessman. That was it. He was passing through, on his way to... where?
The cops were shouting again.
Stomach in her throat, Ivy peeked through the blinds, careful not to reveal herself. The parking lot resembled a circus, but the police were staying back. For how long? She stroked her cheek with the cold gun-Eddie’s gun-and turned towards the bed.
“Gimme your wallet, Rich Boy.” Let’s find out who you are.
He looked startled by that and didn’t move. His sandy hair had fallen into his hazel eyes.
“You got a free hand, don’t you? I said gimme your wallet.”
“Why?”
“Look. I’ve got a pile of cash over there big enough to choke a horse. I sure as hell don’t need yours.” She scowled at him.
“Okay, okay. Just don’t shoot.”
The assurance that he wouldn’t be robbed seemed to calm the guy. Her scowl turned into disgust. Stupid yuppie. As if he would really miss any money out of the damn wallet anyway. He dug beneath himself, into the back pocket of the meticulously-pressed khaki trousers that coordinated with his summer cardigan, white Polo shirt, and shiny loafers. Ugh... loser. He held the wallet out with a hesitant hand.
Ivy approached him. Reached for it.
She didn’t realize the fool would try anything until he had yanked her down on the bed by her thin wrist.
______________
More to come, dah-links. Tah.