(no subject)
[Backstory: February 2003, immediately after Nikki leaves Viggo.]
She's nearly to Oxnard before she remembers her pet. "Jesus." She pulls over to the side of the road, ignoring the traffic streaming past, and steeples her fingers over her temples, trying to ease away the headache that threatens. The last thing she wants is to turn around and go back, when escape (a few days, please, just a little time) beckons so near.
She pulls her mobile from her purse after a moment, speed dials Johnny, and isn't surprised when she's bounced straight to his voice mail. He probably has the phone off - he'd mentioned they might be filming today. She doesn't bother to identify herself.
"Johnny, about that part we were hashing out, I don't think I'm going to be able to take it. I'm not fit for human company at the moment, you know? It's a great part, though, you should show it to Rena. I think she'll jump at it. I'll be out of town for a few days, would you mind checking up on Miss Hannah for me? She'll be fine in her cage, you don't need to let her out if you don't want to, just make sure she has enough food and water. Her kibble's in the left hand cupboard in the kitchen, and don't mind the mess, as usual - I'll deal with it when I get home. You might throw in a treat or two, she likes grapes and there should still be a few in the crisper drawer. My key is on the hook in your kitchen, and you remember the code to my alarm? Oh eight two six eight nine." She thinks. Is that everything? "Oh, and for god's sake don't take Sparrow with you this time. I know you think all god's creatures should be friends, but I don't like the odds on the two of them. I'll call you when my head's on straight, maybe we could do dinner - I'll cook if you bring dessert."
She leaves another message with one of the lighting guys at the studio, telling him she called and to check his messages, and wonders what happened to the girl from the temp agency who was answering the phones last week; either she quit rather than work at a porn studio any longer, or Johnny lured her to the other side of the cameras, and she honestly couldn't say which of the two is more likely. The tap on the window startles her, and she looks up into the concerned eyes of a highway patrolman.
"You all right, miss?" His voice starts out muffled and comes clear as she hastily lowers the window.
"I'm fine," she lies with a pasted on smile, holding up the phone. "I got a call I had to take, so I stopped." He nods.
"That's very intelligent of you, miss. Most people would have kept driving." He's looking her up and down, taking in her unseasonable dress, her windblown hair, the garment bag tossed across the back seat. His brows twist together. "You know, you shouldn't really drive barefoot. It's not safe."
"I'll remember that. Thank you, officer." He clearly doesn't believe her claim that she's fine, but she doesn't care as long as he doesn't keep her sitting there any longer; he glances from one end of the car to the other, obviously looking for something, anything he can use to cite her, but she just got the Saab smogged and checked, the new registration tags are on, and she didn't even unbuckle her seat belt when she pulled over, so he comes up empty-handed.
"You have a nice day, miss," he tells her, and touches the brim of his hat as he walks back to his cruiser. She waits until he's in his car before she starts hers again. To her surprise, he nudges the cruiser just far enough into the slow lane to block traffic, giving her space to get the car up to speed before she has to merge; she lifts a hand in acknowledgement and pulls into the lane, concentrating on obeying all the traffic laws for as long as she can see him in her rearview. Where PCH meets up with the 101, she leaves the freeway behind and cuts westward.
Once she's on the coast road she opens the car up, driving too fast, as usual; she trusts in luck and probability to stay away from any more troopers, and to skill to keep the car steady on the treacherous, winding roads. This time of year, the beaches she whips past are deserted, piled high with seaweed and other debris thrown up by the angry winter waves. Last time she drove this way, she stopped in the early evening at one of these beaches and built herself an illegal fire out of driftwood; the flames hissed and popped and burned in eerie blues and greens from all the salts in the wood, and she sat staring at it until it had burned down to coals, and then until the coals flared black and died. She slept in her car that night, heedless of danger, and woke when the sun burst over the hilltops at dawn. She had danced then, too, she remembers, battements and pirouettes across the damp sand at the water's edge, her shadow rippling sharp and dark across the waves.
She stops again, at what may or may not be the same beach, and the wind when she opens the door cuts through her dress so she might as well still be naked, for all the protection it offers. She's not all that far north yet, but out here on the coast it's cold rather than simply chilly, and the wind brings the spray off the waves with it. In the trunk of her car is an old hooded sweatshirt, soft and faded, the purple NYU torch worn to a shadow, and she pulls this hurriedly over her head and shoves her hands in the front pouch pocket. It reaches to mid-thigh, and the elastic in the cuffs and bottom is gone to nothing, but she's marginally warmer as she picks her careful way down the path to the beach. The sweatshirt gives her the same tired pang it always does, and she promises herself, as she always does, that the next time she takes a box of clothes to the Goodwill she'll toss it in, as well.
It hasn't happened yet.
She finds a spot between a couple of boulders that could be the place where she had her little bonfire, though there's no trace of it now, and she crouches in the sand and waits for her eyes to stop smarting and watering, an effect she blames on the wind, cold and vicious, conveniently ignoring the fact that she's a little in the lee of one of the rocks, and it isn't so bad here. Her toes and fingers are stiff and painful with cold by the time she returns to her car, and she sits for a few minutes with the heaters blasting as she thaws out.
She's never bothered to stop in Santa Cruz before - on the rare occasions she's been this far north, she's simply continued up to San Francisco - but today something about the place draws her in. It might be the boardwalk, so frenetically bright and cheerful during the summer months, now dim and shuttered against the winter's cold. It might be the lonely surfers on the clifftops with their boards and wetsuits, trudging home after a long day spent in the frigid water hoping for the perfect wave. It might even be the smell of fried fish from a roadside restaurant that makes her stomach growl loudly and points up the fact that she hasn't eaten since her eggs at breakfast, now little more than a memory. Whatever the reason, some time after she passes the wee lighthouse whose sign proclaims it the Santa Cruz Surf Museum, she makes a half-conscious decision and turns the car around, heading back into town. She'll stay here tonight. A stop at a drugstore yields the necessities: a sackful of paperback novels, a flask of rum, and toiletries
She takes a room at a motel not too far off the downtown strip that advertises free cable! and whirlpool bath! with slightly desperate exclamation marks. The clerk at the desk, in one of those coincidences that are only supposed to happen (and are really only funny) in the movies, is reading the latest issue of AVN when she walks in, and his expression as he looks from her face across the counter from him, down to her limbs and assorted other body parts on the photo spread in front of him ("Where Has Nikki Gone?"), and back, is almost enough to make her smile for the first time since she left L.A.
Almost.
"I need a room," she tells him, and he starts nodding at her first word. She hopes he'll stop soon; he's putting her badly in mind of one of those bobble-headed dolls, and it's difficult to resist the temptation to flick him on the forehead and see what happens. "It needs a bed, a TV, and a whirlpool bath."
"Um, miss, um," he interrupts. "The whirlpool bath, um, it doesn't, um, you know." He twirls a hand in illustration. "Doesn't, um, whirl anymore." His um-um-um-ing grates on her nerves.
"Does it still fill?" She's not looking for jets, just a tub that might be big and deep enough for a proper soak, and he nods quickly. "I'll take it." She starts to open her wallet.
"Pay when you check out, miss," he tells her, and she looks up, startled. He hands her a key on a big plastic tag, and it's as if he's flipped a switch that starts him talking. "Two Forty, upstairs, last door on the left, miss, there's ice in the corridor and vending machines, do you need change? I could bring you extra blankets if you need them, some people say the windows have drafts but I've never-"
She lays one finger on his lips and he stops abruptly.
"Are there any restaurants that deliver around here?"
"Pizza My Heart," he mumbles against her finger, and it takes her a moment to get the pun. "But they only deliver to the front desk."
"Perfect." This time she does open her wallet, pulling out two twenties and dropping them in front of him. "Biggest pie they've got with mushrooms and tomatoes, and a six pack of Coke."
"Pepsi," he says, and she shrugs.
"Bring extra towels and a spare pillow when it gets here. Oh, and-" her eyes flick down to his nametag for a second, and back to his face, "Graham, not a word of this to anyone."
"No, miss, I mean yes, miss, I won't say anything."
"Good boy," she purrs, and he shivers as she walks away.
She's nearly to Oxnard before she remembers her pet. "Jesus." She pulls over to the side of the road, ignoring the traffic streaming past, and steeples her fingers over her temples, trying to ease away the headache that threatens. The last thing she wants is to turn around and go back, when escape (a few days, please, just a little time) beckons so near.
She pulls her mobile from her purse after a moment, speed dials Johnny, and isn't surprised when she's bounced straight to his voice mail. He probably has the phone off - he'd mentioned they might be filming today. She doesn't bother to identify herself.
"Johnny, about that part we were hashing out, I don't think I'm going to be able to take it. I'm not fit for human company at the moment, you know? It's a great part, though, you should show it to Rena. I think she'll jump at it. I'll be out of town for a few days, would you mind checking up on Miss Hannah for me? She'll be fine in her cage, you don't need to let her out if you don't want to, just make sure she has enough food and water. Her kibble's in the left hand cupboard in the kitchen, and don't mind the mess, as usual - I'll deal with it when I get home. You might throw in a treat or two, she likes grapes and there should still be a few in the crisper drawer. My key is on the hook in your kitchen, and you remember the code to my alarm? Oh eight two six eight nine." She thinks. Is that everything? "Oh, and for god's sake don't take Sparrow with you this time. I know you think all god's creatures should be friends, but I don't like the odds on the two of them. I'll call you when my head's on straight, maybe we could do dinner - I'll cook if you bring dessert."
She leaves another message with one of the lighting guys at the studio, telling him she called and to check his messages, and wonders what happened to the girl from the temp agency who was answering the phones last week; either she quit rather than work at a porn studio any longer, or Johnny lured her to the other side of the cameras, and she honestly couldn't say which of the two is more likely. The tap on the window startles her, and she looks up into the concerned eyes of a highway patrolman.
"You all right, miss?" His voice starts out muffled and comes clear as she hastily lowers the window.
"I'm fine," she lies with a pasted on smile, holding up the phone. "I got a call I had to take, so I stopped." He nods.
"That's very intelligent of you, miss. Most people would have kept driving." He's looking her up and down, taking in her unseasonable dress, her windblown hair, the garment bag tossed across the back seat. His brows twist together. "You know, you shouldn't really drive barefoot. It's not safe."
"I'll remember that. Thank you, officer." He clearly doesn't believe her claim that she's fine, but she doesn't care as long as he doesn't keep her sitting there any longer; he glances from one end of the car to the other, obviously looking for something, anything he can use to cite her, but she just got the Saab smogged and checked, the new registration tags are on, and she didn't even unbuckle her seat belt when she pulled over, so he comes up empty-handed.
"You have a nice day, miss," he tells her, and touches the brim of his hat as he walks back to his cruiser. She waits until he's in his car before she starts hers again. To her surprise, he nudges the cruiser just far enough into the slow lane to block traffic, giving her space to get the car up to speed before she has to merge; she lifts a hand in acknowledgement and pulls into the lane, concentrating on obeying all the traffic laws for as long as she can see him in her rearview. Where PCH meets up with the 101, she leaves the freeway behind and cuts westward.
Once she's on the coast road she opens the car up, driving too fast, as usual; she trusts in luck and probability to stay away from any more troopers, and to skill to keep the car steady on the treacherous, winding roads. This time of year, the beaches she whips past are deserted, piled high with seaweed and other debris thrown up by the angry winter waves. Last time she drove this way, she stopped in the early evening at one of these beaches and built herself an illegal fire out of driftwood; the flames hissed and popped and burned in eerie blues and greens from all the salts in the wood, and she sat staring at it until it had burned down to coals, and then until the coals flared black and died. She slept in her car that night, heedless of danger, and woke when the sun burst over the hilltops at dawn. She had danced then, too, she remembers, battements and pirouettes across the damp sand at the water's edge, her shadow rippling sharp and dark across the waves.
She stops again, at what may or may not be the same beach, and the wind when she opens the door cuts through her dress so she might as well still be naked, for all the protection it offers. She's not all that far north yet, but out here on the coast it's cold rather than simply chilly, and the wind brings the spray off the waves with it. In the trunk of her car is an old hooded sweatshirt, soft and faded, the purple NYU torch worn to a shadow, and she pulls this hurriedly over her head and shoves her hands in the front pouch pocket. It reaches to mid-thigh, and the elastic in the cuffs and bottom is gone to nothing, but she's marginally warmer as she picks her careful way down the path to the beach. The sweatshirt gives her the same tired pang it always does, and she promises herself, as she always does, that the next time she takes a box of clothes to the Goodwill she'll toss it in, as well.
It hasn't happened yet.
She finds a spot between a couple of boulders that could be the place where she had her little bonfire, though there's no trace of it now, and she crouches in the sand and waits for her eyes to stop smarting and watering, an effect she blames on the wind, cold and vicious, conveniently ignoring the fact that she's a little in the lee of one of the rocks, and it isn't so bad here. Her toes and fingers are stiff and painful with cold by the time she returns to her car, and she sits for a few minutes with the heaters blasting as she thaws out.
She's never bothered to stop in Santa Cruz before - on the rare occasions she's been this far north, she's simply continued up to San Francisco - but today something about the place draws her in. It might be the boardwalk, so frenetically bright and cheerful during the summer months, now dim and shuttered against the winter's cold. It might be the lonely surfers on the clifftops with their boards and wetsuits, trudging home after a long day spent in the frigid water hoping for the perfect wave. It might even be the smell of fried fish from a roadside restaurant that makes her stomach growl loudly and points up the fact that she hasn't eaten since her eggs at breakfast, now little more than a memory. Whatever the reason, some time after she passes the wee lighthouse whose sign proclaims it the Santa Cruz Surf Museum, she makes a half-conscious decision and turns the car around, heading back into town. She'll stay here tonight. A stop at a drugstore yields the necessities: a sackful of paperback novels, a flask of rum, and toiletries
She takes a room at a motel not too far off the downtown strip that advertises free cable! and whirlpool bath! with slightly desperate exclamation marks. The clerk at the desk, in one of those coincidences that are only supposed to happen (and are really only funny) in the movies, is reading the latest issue of AVN when she walks in, and his expression as he looks from her face across the counter from him, down to her limbs and assorted other body parts on the photo spread in front of him ("Where Has Nikki Gone?"), and back, is almost enough to make her smile for the first time since she left L.A.
Almost.
"I need a room," she tells him, and he starts nodding at her first word. She hopes he'll stop soon; he's putting her badly in mind of one of those bobble-headed dolls, and it's difficult to resist the temptation to flick him on the forehead and see what happens. "It needs a bed, a TV, and a whirlpool bath."
"Um, miss, um," he interrupts. "The whirlpool bath, um, it doesn't, um, you know." He twirls a hand in illustration. "Doesn't, um, whirl anymore." His um-um-um-ing grates on her nerves.
"Does it still fill?" She's not looking for jets, just a tub that might be big and deep enough for a proper soak, and he nods quickly. "I'll take it." She starts to open her wallet.
"Pay when you check out, miss," he tells her, and she looks up, startled. He hands her a key on a big plastic tag, and it's as if he's flipped a switch that starts him talking. "Two Forty, upstairs, last door on the left, miss, there's ice in the corridor and vending machines, do you need change? I could bring you extra blankets if you need them, some people say the windows have drafts but I've never-"
She lays one finger on his lips and he stops abruptly.
"Are there any restaurants that deliver around here?"
"Pizza My Heart," he mumbles against her finger, and it takes her a moment to get the pun. "But they only deliver to the front desk."
"Perfect." This time she does open her wallet, pulling out two twenties and dropping them in front of him. "Biggest pie they've got with mushrooms and tomatoes, and a six pack of Coke."
"Pepsi," he says, and she shrugs.
"Bring extra towels and a spare pillow when it gets here. Oh, and-" her eyes flick down to his nametag for a second, and back to his face, "Graham, not a word of this to anyone."
"No, miss, I mean yes, miss, I won't say anything."
"Good boy," she purrs, and he shivers as she walks away.