Polaroids [1]
Title: Polaroids
Rating: 14/15+
Pairing: Ryden, Ryan/Brendon (not immediate, comes in a later chapter)
POV: 1st, Ryan
Warnings: swearing, character death.
Disclaimer: obviously never happened, don't own the people, set in an alternate universe, don't sue me.
Summary: When Ryan gets short of money, he only has one person to turn to: his agent, Spencer Smith. Smith gets the jobs for Ross, takes his ten percent and that's that. He'd never do it if he wasn't desperate. It was against his morals, but when it comes to it, desperation has ways of winning.
Author's notes: So sorry about the delay. I've been snowed under with exams and stoof. Anyway, I hope you guys like this. Please give me some feedback about this! I've got the holidays coming up, so I'll have time to write more. I've written a few chapters and will post them when I get a chance. Much love *makes heart shape with hands*
A chill plummets down my spine as I look before me at what I’ve done.
I hadn't meant to kill him, but I hadn't expected him to be home. I'd been so careful about timing his movements and I knew that he never returned home before nine on Thursdays. That's why I'd been so startled, when I opened his bedroom door and saw him standing there, startled. He'd started yelling, so I’d hit him and sent him flying backwards against the sharp corner of a dresser. His head had hit it with a sickening thud and then bent at an unnatural angle as he'd slid to the floor.
I’ve never killed anyone before, never even come close, and my hands shake unceasingly as I root through his dresser drawers. I keep glancing furtively over at the body, hoping that I’ll glance over and it’ll miraculously not be there, the whole thing will be a horrid hallucination and he will still be at the office. Alive. I can see the corpse lying awkwardly against the chest of drawers, the chest of drawers that I need to access, and my stomach does a somersault. I start to wonder how I’m going to focus back on the task at hand. I tentatively scoot my foot under his limp torso and shift it a couple of centimetres. Shit, he’s really dead. His body is heavy and I manage to shift it a few more centimetres until it slumps heavily out of my way.
I shudder and open the bottom drawer on each dresser, and then work my way up. Only amateurs started at the top, having to close each drawer before opening the next. I find a box full of money and dump its contents into the leather satchel I am carrying with me. Before leaving the bedroom, I glance at the body, wondering if I should search his pockets, but the thought of touching the body again makes my stomach churn like a damn washing machine and I gave up the idea.
I know I should’ve abandoned this profession a long time ago, but it had been months since my last successful job and my cash reserve had almost completely disappeared. I'd spent weeks casing this guy's house after Spencer Smith, an insurance agent who took ten percent of every successful job he’d turned me onto, had given me the details.
"I’ve got a job for you, Ross.” Spencer had said under the noise of chinking beer glasses, chatting and bad music. “His name's Ian Crawford. He's a journalist, lives alone, and must keep a good hundred to two hundred thousand in cash in the house at any one time," he’d explained when we'd met under the neon beer sign in the back booth at the grimy, sub-standard bar and grill.
Spencer described the security system, a good one, but one that I had cracked many times in the past.
“He's got some relative, lives in Arizona, named in his life insurance policy," Spencer ducked his head and looked around, accidentally making us look even more conspicuous than we already had. "When I talked to him about his homeowner's policy, she told me that there are no other relatives, no spouses, ex-spouses, or anything else."
"What about his schedule?" I asked.
"That's up to you to figure out. I've done everything I can." Spencer gathered up his papers and stuffed them into his briefcase. He'd shown me Crawford’s entire file, including a rough layout of the house and Polaroids of the security system and many of the rooms. Everything he'd shown me went back into his briefcase so he could return it to the office. We wouldn't talk again until I delivered Spencer's ten percent.
I had spent the three weeks following my meeting with Spencer watching Ian’s home, tracking his arrival and departure times until I felt certain of a time when he would be away from the house long enough for me to ransack it. Most evenings he returned home between six and seven, but each Thursday he worked late. On those nights he never returned home before nine.
The time between eight and nine seemed best. By then the sun would have gone down and his nearest neighbours would be unable to see me prowling around outside. I could be inside his house within ten minutes, could ransack the place within fifty minutes, and be back in my car and pulling away moments before he arrived home from the office.
I shake my head, trying to forget all the events that have led to his current, untenable situation. I just need to finish and get out. I need to get away from the house as quickly as possible, but I couldn't leave until I'd gotten all the cash and everything I could pawn. I would need to leave town as soon as possible.
I try to keep my attention on the task at hand, try to concentrate on my desperation for cash and not on the body in the bedroom.
I finish the room and move on to the next, then the next. At a quarter past eight I’ve finished with the upstairs and at two minutes past nine I finished with the downstairs. I' made quite a haul and felt sure I would have enough to leave town, perhaps even to disappear for a long, long time.
As I cross the entrance hall from the dining room heading to the living room, I hear a key in the front door and stop. Ian lived alone and never had unexpected visitors. I'd made sure of it.
When a man opens the door, steps into the entrance hall, and snaps on the light, I am so startled that I stand dumbly, caught like a deer in a car's headlights. The man sees me and instinctively throws his fist, connecting with my face and sending me flying backwards. I hit the ground hard, my head crashing hard against the laminate wood flooring.
“Fuck!” I cry out, my gloved hands clenched in fists in my hair.
“Who the hell are you?!” The man screams at me.
I roll onto my side, holding my head, which was hurting more than my bruising face. “I could ask you the same thing!” I wince, my eyes squeezed shut. The man walks over to me and stands over me. Grabbing my by the shirt collar, he hauls me to my feet. My hands fall to my side and I gather my footing, trying to stand up straight.
“I said, who are you?”
The other man is quite a bit taller than me, I notice as he holds me up in front of him. My breathing is rapid and it feels as though my heart is going to burst through my ribcage. My face is now hurting even more and my body feel limp in the bigger man’s grip.
“Get out. Get out right now.” He spins me around and frogmarches me to the front door. We reach the door and he forces me forward. I fall to the floor, almost landing straight on my face. He throws my satchel out after me and screams “And don’t fucking come back, scum. We don’t want squatters around here.”
He thought I was a squatter.
Hey, I’m not complaining.
I stand up quickly and brush myself off. “I’m sorry sir; it’s just hard to get by at the moment.” I lie, covering my face slightly with my hand.
“Well, I’m sorry, but you can’t stay at my friend’s house!” He shouts slightly, with a firm but sympathetic tone.
“Yes sir, of course, I’m sorry.” I say loudly, trying not to laugh at how much he’s buying it. I start to walk off, my back to the man, biting my lower lip to hold back the laughter.
I got away with it.
It’s not funny. I killed someone. But I’ve gotten away with it, I’m free. Now to go and find Spencer.
I get into my car parked around the corner from Ian’s house, sliding into the driver’s seat and slinging the satchel into the passenger seat. I force the key into the ignition and twist it sharply, listening to the low hum of the engine and exhaling. My knuckles are white on the wheel and I pull away from the street, driving towards Spencer’s office. He knew I was doing it tonight, he’ll be there.
Arriving at his work building, I turn off the car engine and sit staring at the building for a moment before grabbing the satchel, climbing out and walking toward the front door. I press the buzzer labelled ‘Smith’ and wait for a reply.
A voice cracks through the speaker. “Who is it?”
“Ryan Ross. I’ve finished it. I’ve got the stuff.”
There is a silence and a buzz as the door unlocks. I push into it, swinging it open and heading up the stairs in the foyer. I reach the office door labelled ‘S. Smith’ and knock three times on the door.
“It’s open.” The familiar voice comes from the other side. Grabbing the handle and twisting it slowly, I take a deep breath and enter.
Spencer is sitting at his desk, typing on his computer, bathed in the dull orange glow of his desk lamp, the only light on in the room.
“How did it go?” He looks up.
I walk towards his desk and take a seat in front of him. “Completely ransacked the place. Took every dollar in there.” I say complacently, reclining in the chair.
“Let’s see the goods.” He turns to me and intertwines his fingers in front of him on his desk. I sling the bag up by his hands and he undoes the buckle, flipping it open. He takes out the notes and begins to count them. “One hundred and eighty thousand dollars exactly. Good job, Ross. Marvellous job. So, I’ll take my ten percent, which I believe is...” He closes his eyes and does the calculation in his head. “...eighteen thousand and you can keep the rest.”
I nod and look at the money on the desk. One hundred and sixty two thousand dollars to get me out of town. I’ve been almost starving waiting for a job like this. Finally, I have gotten the job that will actually keep me going for a long time.
I can finally start over.
I scoop up the money and put it all back into the leather satchel. “I’ll be seeing you around, Spencer. Take care.”
“You too, Ryan. Stay safe.”
Scooting back into the car, I breathe a sigh or relief. I’m leaving for good, never coming back to this dastardly place.
This is my new life.
2
Rating: 14/15+
Pairing: Ryden, Ryan/Brendon (not immediate, comes in a later chapter)
POV: 1st, Ryan
Warnings: swearing, character death.
Disclaimer: obviously never happened, don't own the people, set in an alternate universe, don't sue me.
Summary: When Ryan gets short of money, he only has one person to turn to: his agent, Spencer Smith. Smith gets the jobs for Ross, takes his ten percent and that's that. He'd never do it if he wasn't desperate. It was against his morals, but when it comes to it, desperation has ways of winning.
Author's notes: So sorry about the delay. I've been snowed under with exams and stoof. Anyway, I hope you guys like this. Please give me some feedback about this! I've got the holidays coming up, so I'll have time to write more. I've written a few chapters and will post them when I get a chance. Much love *makes heart shape with hands*
A chill plummets down my spine as I look before me at what I’ve done.
I hadn't meant to kill him, but I hadn't expected him to be home. I'd been so careful about timing his movements and I knew that he never returned home before nine on Thursdays. That's why I'd been so startled, when I opened his bedroom door and saw him standing there, startled. He'd started yelling, so I’d hit him and sent him flying backwards against the sharp corner of a dresser. His head had hit it with a sickening thud and then bent at an unnatural angle as he'd slid to the floor.
I’ve never killed anyone before, never even come close, and my hands shake unceasingly as I root through his dresser drawers. I keep glancing furtively over at the body, hoping that I’ll glance over and it’ll miraculously not be there, the whole thing will be a horrid hallucination and he will still be at the office. Alive. I can see the corpse lying awkwardly against the chest of drawers, the chest of drawers that I need to access, and my stomach does a somersault. I start to wonder how I’m going to focus back on the task at hand. I tentatively scoot my foot under his limp torso and shift it a couple of centimetres. Shit, he’s really dead. His body is heavy and I manage to shift it a few more centimetres until it slumps heavily out of my way.
I shudder and open the bottom drawer on each dresser, and then work my way up. Only amateurs started at the top, having to close each drawer before opening the next. I find a box full of money and dump its contents into the leather satchel I am carrying with me. Before leaving the bedroom, I glance at the body, wondering if I should search his pockets, but the thought of touching the body again makes my stomach churn like a damn washing machine and I gave up the idea.
I know I should’ve abandoned this profession a long time ago, but it had been months since my last successful job and my cash reserve had almost completely disappeared. I'd spent weeks casing this guy's house after Spencer Smith, an insurance agent who took ten percent of every successful job he’d turned me onto, had given me the details.
"I’ve got a job for you, Ross.” Spencer had said under the noise of chinking beer glasses, chatting and bad music. “His name's Ian Crawford. He's a journalist, lives alone, and must keep a good hundred to two hundred thousand in cash in the house at any one time," he’d explained when we'd met under the neon beer sign in the back booth at the grimy, sub-standard bar and grill.
Spencer described the security system, a good one, but one that I had cracked many times in the past.
“He's got some relative, lives in Arizona, named in his life insurance policy," Spencer ducked his head and looked around, accidentally making us look even more conspicuous than we already had. "When I talked to him about his homeowner's policy, she told me that there are no other relatives, no spouses, ex-spouses, or anything else."
"What about his schedule?" I asked.
"That's up to you to figure out. I've done everything I can." Spencer gathered up his papers and stuffed them into his briefcase. He'd shown me Crawford’s entire file, including a rough layout of the house and Polaroids of the security system and many of the rooms. Everything he'd shown me went back into his briefcase so he could return it to the office. We wouldn't talk again until I delivered Spencer's ten percent.
I had spent the three weeks following my meeting with Spencer watching Ian’s home, tracking his arrival and departure times until I felt certain of a time when he would be away from the house long enough for me to ransack it. Most evenings he returned home between six and seven, but each Thursday he worked late. On those nights he never returned home before nine.
The time between eight and nine seemed best. By then the sun would have gone down and his nearest neighbours would be unable to see me prowling around outside. I could be inside his house within ten minutes, could ransack the place within fifty minutes, and be back in my car and pulling away moments before he arrived home from the office.
I shake my head, trying to forget all the events that have led to his current, untenable situation. I just need to finish and get out. I need to get away from the house as quickly as possible, but I couldn't leave until I'd gotten all the cash and everything I could pawn. I would need to leave town as soon as possible.
I try to keep my attention on the task at hand, try to concentrate on my desperation for cash and not on the body in the bedroom.
I finish the room and move on to the next, then the next. At a quarter past eight I’ve finished with the upstairs and at two minutes past nine I finished with the downstairs. I' made quite a haul and felt sure I would have enough to leave town, perhaps even to disappear for a long, long time.
As I cross the entrance hall from the dining room heading to the living room, I hear a key in the front door and stop. Ian lived alone and never had unexpected visitors. I'd made sure of it.
When a man opens the door, steps into the entrance hall, and snaps on the light, I am so startled that I stand dumbly, caught like a deer in a car's headlights. The man sees me and instinctively throws his fist, connecting with my face and sending me flying backwards. I hit the ground hard, my head crashing hard against the laminate wood flooring.
“Fuck!” I cry out, my gloved hands clenched in fists in my hair.
“Who the hell are you?!” The man screams at me.
I roll onto my side, holding my head, which was hurting more than my bruising face. “I could ask you the same thing!” I wince, my eyes squeezed shut. The man walks over to me and stands over me. Grabbing my by the shirt collar, he hauls me to my feet. My hands fall to my side and I gather my footing, trying to stand up straight.
“I said, who are you?”
The other man is quite a bit taller than me, I notice as he holds me up in front of him. My breathing is rapid and it feels as though my heart is going to burst through my ribcage. My face is now hurting even more and my body feel limp in the bigger man’s grip.
“Get out. Get out right now.” He spins me around and frogmarches me to the front door. We reach the door and he forces me forward. I fall to the floor, almost landing straight on my face. He throws my satchel out after me and screams “And don’t fucking come back, scum. We don’t want squatters around here.”
He thought I was a squatter.
Hey, I’m not complaining.
I stand up quickly and brush myself off. “I’m sorry sir; it’s just hard to get by at the moment.” I lie, covering my face slightly with my hand.
“Well, I’m sorry, but you can’t stay at my friend’s house!” He shouts slightly, with a firm but sympathetic tone.
“Yes sir, of course, I’m sorry.” I say loudly, trying not to laugh at how much he’s buying it. I start to walk off, my back to the man, biting my lower lip to hold back the laughter.
I got away with it.
It’s not funny. I killed someone. But I’ve gotten away with it, I’m free. Now to go and find Spencer.
I get into my car parked around the corner from Ian’s house, sliding into the driver’s seat and slinging the satchel into the passenger seat. I force the key into the ignition and twist it sharply, listening to the low hum of the engine and exhaling. My knuckles are white on the wheel and I pull away from the street, driving towards Spencer’s office. He knew I was doing it tonight, he’ll be there.
Arriving at his work building, I turn off the car engine and sit staring at the building for a moment before grabbing the satchel, climbing out and walking toward the front door. I press the buzzer labelled ‘Smith’ and wait for a reply.
A voice cracks through the speaker. “Who is it?”
“Ryan Ross. I’ve finished it. I’ve got the stuff.”
There is a silence and a buzz as the door unlocks. I push into it, swinging it open and heading up the stairs in the foyer. I reach the office door labelled ‘S. Smith’ and knock three times on the door.
“It’s open.” The familiar voice comes from the other side. Grabbing the handle and twisting it slowly, I take a deep breath and enter.
Spencer is sitting at his desk, typing on his computer, bathed in the dull orange glow of his desk lamp, the only light on in the room.
“How did it go?” He looks up.
I walk towards his desk and take a seat in front of him. “Completely ransacked the place. Took every dollar in there.” I say complacently, reclining in the chair.
“Let’s see the goods.” He turns to me and intertwines his fingers in front of him on his desk. I sling the bag up by his hands and he undoes the buckle, flipping it open. He takes out the notes and begins to count them. “One hundred and eighty thousand dollars exactly. Good job, Ross. Marvellous job. So, I’ll take my ten percent, which I believe is...” He closes his eyes and does the calculation in his head. “...eighteen thousand and you can keep the rest.”
I nod and look at the money on the desk. One hundred and sixty two thousand dollars to get me out of town. I’ve been almost starving waiting for a job like this. Finally, I have gotten the job that will actually keep me going for a long time.
I can finally start over.
I scoop up the money and put it all back into the leather satchel. “I’ll be seeing you around, Spencer. Take care.”
“You too, Ryan. Stay safe.”
Scooting back into the car, I breathe a sigh or relief. I’m leaving for good, never coming back to this dastardly place.
This is my new life.
2