(no subject)
Title: Words You Can't Take Back
Characters/Pairings:Ryder/Dodger, some mentions of Callie
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: It all belongs to newmonia and I
Note: Not exactly how I wanted this one to come out, but hey, I wrote something!
The day had been planned out from the second he realized becoming a published author was possible. Ryder was fairly sure he had dreamed up about a thousand different scenarios, even if they had gotten slightly more realistic over the years, and now he often wondered why he thought a party on a yacht had ever seemed like a good idea. Sailing had never been his thing, and the few times his father had taken him out on the water usually ended with him shut up in the cabin, cramped up and desperately trying not to look at the waves outside.
The day his first novel came out started like most; with a girl. Ginger was a model, whose hair probably inspired the slightly ridiculous name change. Ryder had a feeling she probably started with something much simpler. The overpriced clothes and attempts at being witty probably trying to mask the fact that she was a Jane or a Jenny. A cloud of perfume always seemed to follow her, Chanel or Gucci, some slightly musty old fashioned scent that he could never put his finger on, or quite like. Too much of it filled his lungs and weighed heavy on his heart, making it hard to breathe.
Last night he had liked it. It had almost reminded him of before, when sex had make it almost impossible to breathe, to think, to focus on anything else, but it wasn't the same. Dodger hadn't worn perfume. Or had she? Callie had. He definitely remembered that much. It was something sharp, like oranges and something else vaguely citrusy with sickly sweet flowers mixed in. He'd hated that, too, but after almost a year of classes, it almost grew on him. It was her trademark, a sign that she was coming even if she wasn't in view. Dodger never had that and it gave her yet another element of surprise. There was never any sign that she was coming. If anything, she was unpredictable, and that was the way he liked it.
The way they both had.
It was strange to think that he was forgetting things about her. He had spent so much time memorizing every little quirk and freckle. Carefully, of course. It had started out of plain curiosity. Wasn't it the job of any writer to document people exactly as they were? There really wasn't anyone like Dodge. Looking back, he was starting to realize that becoming completely enamored with her was inevitable. Whatever they had was strong, magnetic, and a hell of a lot bigger than him.
Then why hadn't he paid closer attention when he saw her?
Because it hurt too much. She seemed almost happy.
"Ryder?"
Ginger's voice pulled him out of his thoughts, and he looked over to find her half dressed, carefully zippering a little black dress that probably cost enough to feed a family in a third world country for months.
"Oh good, you're up," she said with a laugh. "I'm gonna head out of here, but I'll see you at the party tonight?"
"Yeah, sure," he said a little too quickly, running a hand through his hair.
"You don't seem too excited," she mused aloud, her green eyes narrowing in what almost could pass for concern. "This thing is going to be a hit, you know. Everyone says so. Come tomorrow everyone and their mom will have a copy."
He managed a weak smile before she's on her way, too high heels clicking on his hard wood floors. Once the door slams and the echoes subside, he can only hear one thing.
I'm looking forward to reading it.
That once sentence weighs heavier on his heart and mind than Ginger's perfume ever could. She had said it so earnestly, and it he had been playing and replaying it for months.
"You shouldn't be," he said aloud. With that, he reached over to the nightstand, picking up a hardback that seemed to weigh a thousand times more than it should. He opened it carefully, hearing the binding crackle and the pages slide into place. The dedication was there, centered and perfectly typed, even though there had to have been fifty drafts of it filling his trash can months before.
No matter how good he thought the words were, he knew they would never be enough.
Characters/Pairings:Ryder/Dodger, some mentions of Callie
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: It all belongs to newmonia and I
Note: Not exactly how I wanted this one to come out, but hey, I wrote something!
The day had been planned out from the second he realized becoming a published author was possible. Ryder was fairly sure he had dreamed up about a thousand different scenarios, even if they had gotten slightly more realistic over the years, and now he often wondered why he thought a party on a yacht had ever seemed like a good idea. Sailing had never been his thing, and the few times his father had taken him out on the water usually ended with him shut up in the cabin, cramped up and desperately trying not to look at the waves outside.
The day his first novel came out started like most; with a girl. Ginger was a model, whose hair probably inspired the slightly ridiculous name change. Ryder had a feeling she probably started with something much simpler. The overpriced clothes and attempts at being witty probably trying to mask the fact that she was a Jane or a Jenny. A cloud of perfume always seemed to follow her, Chanel or Gucci, some slightly musty old fashioned scent that he could never put his finger on, or quite like. Too much of it filled his lungs and weighed heavy on his heart, making it hard to breathe.
Last night he had liked it. It had almost reminded him of before, when sex had make it almost impossible to breathe, to think, to focus on anything else, but it wasn't the same. Dodger hadn't worn perfume. Or had she? Callie had. He definitely remembered that much. It was something sharp, like oranges and something else vaguely citrusy with sickly sweet flowers mixed in. He'd hated that, too, but after almost a year of classes, it almost grew on him. It was her trademark, a sign that she was coming even if she wasn't in view. Dodger never had that and it gave her yet another element of surprise. There was never any sign that she was coming. If anything, she was unpredictable, and that was the way he liked it.
The way they both had.
It was strange to think that he was forgetting things about her. He had spent so much time memorizing every little quirk and freckle. Carefully, of course. It had started out of plain curiosity. Wasn't it the job of any writer to document people exactly as they were? There really wasn't anyone like Dodge. Looking back, he was starting to realize that becoming completely enamored with her was inevitable. Whatever they had was strong, magnetic, and a hell of a lot bigger than him.
Then why hadn't he paid closer attention when he saw her?
Because it hurt too much. She seemed almost happy.
"Ryder?"
Ginger's voice pulled him out of his thoughts, and he looked over to find her half dressed, carefully zippering a little black dress that probably cost enough to feed a family in a third world country for months.
"Oh good, you're up," she said with a laugh. "I'm gonna head out of here, but I'll see you at the party tonight?"
"Yeah, sure," he said a little too quickly, running a hand through his hair.
"You don't seem too excited," she mused aloud, her green eyes narrowing in what almost could pass for concern. "This thing is going to be a hit, you know. Everyone says so. Come tomorrow everyone and their mom will have a copy."
He managed a weak smile before she's on her way, too high heels clicking on his hard wood floors. Once the door slams and the echoes subside, he can only hear one thing.
I'm looking forward to reading it.
That once sentence weighs heavier on his heart and mind than Ginger's perfume ever could. She had said it so earnestly, and it he had been playing and replaying it for months.
"You shouldn't be," he said aloud. With that, he reached over to the nightstand, picking up a hardback that seemed to weigh a thousand times more than it should. He opened it carefully, hearing the binding crackle and the pages slide into place. The dedication was there, centered and perfectly typed, even though there had to have been fifty drafts of it filling his trash can months before.
No matter how good he thought the words were, he knew they would never be enough.