InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 10: Anomaly ❯ Breathe ( Chapter 21 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

~~Chapter 21~~
~Breathe~ 

~o~

 

 

“So, you had time to go over the contracts for the STAFAR project?”

Mikio paced the floor behind the sofa as he flipped through the blue-backed pages of the contract.  He’d gone over them a couple days ago, and everything seemed to be in order.  All of the noted addendums had been added to the final draft, and it was ready to be signed and filed.  “Hai,” he replied, glancing over at the television.

Toga nodded, idly rubbing his chin as he slowly paced around his desk in his comfortable office at home in Tokyo on the other end of the live feed.  “Good, good . . . Sorry to bother you, by the way.  I know you’ve got a lot going on.  Cain said that you were meeting with some opposition with your inquiry on Gavin’s behalf.”

Letting the contract fall onto the coffee table, Mikio sighed.  “It’s . . . going pretty slowly,” he admitted, his expression, stating very plainly, just what he thought of the delays.  “I have every faith that he’ll be cleared, but it’s just going to take some time.  I apologize if you need me there.”

Toga flicked his wrist in a dismissive kind of way.  “No, it’s fine.  Gavin’s family, and family is way more important than your job here.”

Fiddling with his twitching ear, Mikio made a face.  “You all are family, too, last time I checked.”

Toga chuckled.  “You know what I mean.  This is nothing more than business as usual.  Just clear Gavin’s name.  Anyway, I wanted to tell you that I need you to go over the paperwork for the Ransbad merger, but it’s not dire, and I’ll just go over it with you when I’m there.”

“When you’re here?” Mikio queried.  “You’re coming here?”

Toga nodded.  “Yeah, but keep it quiet.  Sierra wants to meet her new granddaughters, don’t you know.”

Mikio blinked, slowly shook his head.  “. . . Granddaughters?  Did I miss something . . .?”

The Japanese tai-youkai chuckled.  “Well, not exactly . . . It seems that last month when Cain was challenged, he brought back the man’s newborn twin daughters.  Ben took charge of them, and somewhere in there, Charity got involved.  Anyway, they both fell in love with the girls—entirely understandable, given that they’re cuter than hell—and Cain decided that it would be fine to grant the adoption, with the stipulation that Charity co-parents with the old panther . . . Kind of like how humans do it if they divorce.”

“Is that right?” Mikio mused.  It wasn’t exactly the same, but . . .

“It’s unorthodox, but I have every faith that those two can handle it, just fine.”

“I’m sure they can,” Mikio agreed.  Given that the two in question were a couple of the most level-headed people he knew, he had little doubts on that front.  “When will you be here?”

Toga sighed.  “Unfortunately, I’ve got a meeting scheduled with Jude Covington that I can’t get out of first, so it won’t be till closer to the end of October, but it gives me some time to get some things cleared away.  I think I’m due for an extended vacation—at least, that’s what Sie says.”

“Well, then, I guess you are,” Mikio agreed with a chuckle.  “Will you be staying here?  I’m pretty sure the work will be done by then.  They were just finishing up the guest bathrooms, I think.”

“Oh, I don’t want to step on your toes, and you’re already there.  I think Sie might like a nice hotel, anyway.”

“You’d hardly be stepping on my toes,” Mikio said, sinking down on the sofa as the motion sensor on the camera turned the device accordingly.  “It’s more your place than it is mine.  I don’t mind.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Toga insisted.  “Besides, Ben lives a good distance from there, so it would be more convenient to stay somewhere closer to them.”

For some reason, Mikio felt like Toga might well be making allowances to suit him, but if he was, there wasn’t anything he could do about it. 

“Anyway, I’ll cut this short.  Since the contract looks fine, I’ll have them draw up the final drafts and get everything going.”

“All right,” Mikio agreed.  “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

“Absolutely.”

The connection ended, and Mikio heaved a sigh.

Three days.

It’d been three days since Madison had gone home, and he’d done nothing to stop her.  Considering the circumstances, just what could he have done?

He’d asked himself that question a lot over the course of those days.  Every time he thought about it, he couldn’t quite help the feeling that he was stupid—really stupid . . . Stupid for thinking that a girl like Madison . . .

The whole episode with Gunnar had driven that home hard, hadn’t it?

Heaving a sigh, he leaned forward, elbows on knees, burying his face in his hands.  He’d never really tried to compare himself to his cousin, his nephews, and it hadn’t really ever been an issue before, and he wasn’t doing that now, either; not exactly . . .

No, it was more that the idea that Gunnar and she had been intimate . . . It spoke volumes, didn’t it?  Gunnar was the kind of guy that girls invariably went for: confidence that bordered upon arrogance who dressed impeccably, who knew what to say and when to say it . . . and if that was the kind of man she looked for?  Well, Mikio was about as far from that as he could possibly be. Evan, Gunnar . . . And it didn’t bother him that she had a past.  That really wasn’t the issue.  What bothered him most was just the proof, right there, in front of him, of what, exactly, she wanted . . .

If he knew that, then how in the world was he supposed to look at her, to try to get her to stay? And just how stupid had he seemed to her this entire time?  The clumsy, awkward guy, trying to be her hero?  Trying to make her world safer, better?  Laughable, wasn’t it, considering that he couldn’t even stay on his own two feet . . .

He grimaced.  “Kami,” he breathed, flopping back against the sofa, staring up at the ceiling, hating the idea that he’d somehow managed to ignore his common sense—hating the thought that, just for a minute, he’d almost started to think . . .

And even though he told himself that he’d simply forgotten, that he knew in the beginning that he was better off, just to keep to himself like he always did, it didn’t really help.  Nothing really helped.

 

-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-

 

“All right, Madison, tell me what’s got you in such a snit?”

Glancing up from her desk where she was clearing away some bookkeeping, Madison shot Brit, the store manager, a quelling look.  The stunning girl—her hair was a deep, gorgeous purple this week—brushed off the expression and smiled cheekily.  “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Madison muttered under her breath as she turned her attention back to the computer screen once more.

Brit was having none of it.  “Did you really call Cassie an ignorant twit?”

Cassie Foyle was the rep from Arlington Haircare who had stopped by, unannounced, and wanted Madison to drop everything, just to see the latest line of overpriced, underwhelming products.  “We haven’t ever carried their brand of crap in any of my shops, and she knew it,” Madison stated evenly.  “If she had called, I’d have told her—again—that I’m not interested, so, did I call her an ignorant twit?  Yes.  Yes, I did.”

Brit giggled, but she had the grace to cover her lips.  “Ah, I love you, you know.  Nothing’s ever boring when you’re here.”

Madison wrinkled her nose and paused long enough to level a rather bored glance at Brit.  “Don’t you have something else you should be doing?” she asked, raising an eyebrow in a very blunt way.  “Running my salon or something like that?”

“Of course,” Brit agreed, though she made no move to leave.  “You know, the girls and I are going out tonight—it’s ladies’ night at Velvet Crush . . . Why don’t you come with us?  It’ll be fun . . . All of us, shamelessly eyeing nearly naked man-candy . . .”

Turning her attention back to the computer again, Madison sighed.  “Not tonight,” she replied.  “You all have fun, though.  Tuck a buck or two for me.”

Brit heaved a sigh, tucked a long strand of hair behind her ear. She was considering something, Madison could tell.  She just wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to know, what it was . . . “At the risk of overstepping myself, I just wanted to say, you’ve been like this all week,” she went on.  “If there’s something on your mind—if you want to talk . . .”

Forcing a tepid smile that she was far from feeling, Madison drew a deep breath, reminding herself that she didn’t really want to snap at the manager, especially when Brit had done nothing wrong, other than showing her concern for Madison.  “Thanks, but, um . . . Everything’s just fine.”

“You know, I’m a good listener—one who doesn’t go around, spreading your business.”

Madison knew it, sure.  She’d talked to Brit pretty often over the years, and no, it never went any farther than Brit’s ears.  This, though . . . It was too personal, and, to be honest, she didn’t really want to talk to anyone about it . . . “I know.  It’s nothing.  Just . . . Just chalk it up to all the rain today,” she lied.

Brit didn’t look like she was buying, but there really wasn’t anything more she could say.  In the end, she paused for a moment before giving a curt nod, casting Madison a compassionate half-smile before she turned around and walked away.

Madison watched her go before letting out a long, drawn out breath.

‘You really are in quite the mood.  Why don’t you just call Mikio?  See what he’s doing tonight?’

That suggestion sounded reasonable enough.  Too bad she’d already called him a couple times in the few days since she’d returned to her apartment, but he’d been so vague, so . . . so standoffish . . . So very unlike the Mikio she’d come to know . . .

But she had no idea, why.

The thing was, she didn’t know what to do; not really.  Never in her life had she ever felt so confused, so unsure.  Maybe, if she could get Mikio to talk to her . . . But again, she had no idea, how to get him to do that when he almost seemed like he was trying to avoid her.

Almost?  She snorted, then sighed.  No, after having tried calling him a few times, the one time she did actually get him to answer the phone, he’d been so vague, so almost businesslike . . . It had hurt—and it wasn’t just her imagination, either . . .

If it weren’t so important—if he weren’t so important—then maybe she’d be able to figure it out, but he was, and all she really knew was that she had never felt quite so happy, quite so content, as she was when she was with him.

‘Maybe you should just go over there, and don’t leave until he talks to you.’

She sighed, biting her lip, trying in vain to concentrate on the bookkeeping information she was supposed to be checking over.  Why was it that she felt as though that was a really bad idea?

The truth was, she’d never really had to work for men’s attention, never really had to try that hard, and it wasn’t that she was all that pretty, all that special, not really.  No, it was more that, if she didn’t get a guy’s attention, then she just didn’t really care, and therein lay the crux of the issue.  None of those men had ever really mattered to her, and as cold as that sounded, she supposed that it was simply because there was no chance that any of them were really meant to be in her life, long-term.

She wasn’t even certain that Mikio was meant to be, and that hurt, too.  She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t held him in the highest of regard, and whether it was because of her own fixation on him or if it really was something that could be so much deeper, she didn’t know.  Now, though, it scared her—a lot.  Either he was meant to be there, or he wasn’t, but if he wasn’t, then how was she really going to deal with the idea that the dream she’d carried her entire life . . .?

Any other guy, and she’d know damn well, how to deal with.  Mikio, though?  It was a delicate balance, and she knew it, because Mikio wasn’t like every other guy, and that . . .

‘That’s what makes him worth the effort . . .’

 

-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-

 

Letting out a deep breath as he hit ‘send’ to reply to his mother’s text, Mikio dropped the device onto the coffee table and rubbed his face with a slightly shaking hand.

It had been a long day, and even then, it wasn’t even eight p.m. yet.  Sure, he had made quite a bit of headway into the short list of things he needed to get done, and he’d thought that he’d be glad that the workmen were finally finished, too, and he was, sure, but somehow, the deafening silence of the Inutaisho penthouse rang in his ears.

He couldn’t quite credit the sense of emptiness that lingered, that seemed to have grown even more vast since Madison had left.  It was amplified, maybe, by the absolute quiet, and that, he thought, was strange, wasn’t it?  After all, he lived alone in Japan, too, and he’d never really noticed the same thing there.

‘Not surprising, is it?  Madison doesn’t live in Japan, but even if she did, you hadn’t really gotten to know her.  If you went home tomorrow, do you think you wouldn’t miss her?  Because you would, even there.’

Frowning into the emptiness around him, Mikio didn’t respond to that.

‘Before Evan’s wedding, you didn’t really know her—hadn’t known a thing about her, other than she was Evan’s friend, those vague stories that Bas would sometimes tell you, always with his underlying sense of resignation, like it was all expected of Evan, after all.  Oh, sure, you knew of her.  She’s always existed in your mind on some level, even if it wasn’t on par with what you know now.  The thing is, as loathe as you are to admit as much, the time she’s spent with you?  It means something.’

‘No . . . No, it can’t . . . If . . . If . . .’ He winced.  ‘There’s nothing there. There can’t be anything there.’

‘Don’t be a baka, Mikio!  There is, and you—’

Cut off abruptly when the toll of the doorbell sounded, Mikio’s frown deepened as he hauled himself to his feet.  Rounding the short corner into the foyer, he slowed his gait, and even before he neared the door, he could sense the youki that emanated right through it, and he smothered a sigh.  He hesitated as he reached for the door handle, unsure if he really wanted to open it, but if he could sense him, then there was no way that the intruder wouldn’t realize that Mikio was there, too.  Still, he had to brace himself before he opened the door, had to brace himself, as it were, not against him, per se, but against whatever it was that he wanted to say . . .

“Hey, Mikio.  Got a minute?”

Scowling at the immaculate sight of his second-cousin, Mikio stepped back but remained silent as Gunnar strode past him.  Telling, wasn’t it?  Gunnar had to have access to the penthouse.  He was an Inutaisho, after all.  Even so, he’d knocked, which had to mean . . . something . . . if Mikio were of a mindset to afford Gunnar even a modicum of credit on the matter . . .

Gunnar uttered an audible sigh as Mikio closed the door and slowly turned to face him.  The future Japanese tai-youkai stuffed his hands into the pockets of his impeccably tailored Sam Winters slacks.  He didn’t speak right away, and Mikio wasn’t feeling inclined to help him get to the point, either.  The silence stretched out, unfurled, like an invisible line of demarcation, and Mikio, for his part, wasn’t willing to make the allowance, to breech that distance that opened up wide between them.

Gunnar shook his head, expression, registering the disdain he felt in having to explain anything at all, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Mikio knew, didn’t he?  If it were anyone else, anyone but him, Gunnar wouldn’t have cared, let alone bothered, to do this, at all.  He wasn’t one who ever felt the need to explain himself, usually given to allowing whomever he’d offended, whether by accident or by design, to get over it—or not.  That understanding did nothing at all to soften Mikio’s stance, however, and the silence thickened, grew.  After all, what could Gunnar possibly say that could change the truth of the situation at hand—and the things that Mikio himself had forgotten . . .?

“About the other day,” Gunnar finally said, breaking the quiet.  “I . . . I wanted to talk to you about that.”

“I really don’t think there’s anything to say,” Mikio countered, turning around, reaching for the door handle once more, intention clear.

“No, there is,” Gunnar insisted.  “Just listen to me—please.”

Mikio’s body stilled, more from the judicious use of ‘please’ than from Gunnar’s desire to explain anything.  Mikio could count on one hand, the number of times in their lives that he’d ever actually said that word to him or Morio or Bas, for that matter.  Still, he sighed, slowly shook his head.  “I don’t want details,” he muttered, scowling at the wall by the door, unwilling to look Gunnar in the eye.

“I wasn’t going to give you details,” Gunnar retorted rather dryly.  “Yes, it’s true.  Madison and I had sex.  I was in the city, and I was bored, so—”

“You slept with her because you were bored,” Mikio gritted out from between clenched teeth, hands, balling into fists at his sides as he slowly turned back to face his cousin once more.  “That’s just . . . You really—”

“No,” Gunnar interrupted with a growl, his trademark impatience, rearing its ugly head.  “I was bored, so I went out to get a drink.  Bas was in Maine, I had nothing better to do that night, so just a drink . . . That’s what I was trying to say.  Madison was there, she joined me, and we talked for a while.  Then, I took her home and . . . and things happened.  There’s not much more to it than that.”

“Okay,” Mikio said, crossing his arms over his chest.  “You know what, Gunnar?  It’s . . . none of my business, but if you feel better now . . .”

Scowl deepening at Mikio’s obviously clipped and dismissive demeanor, Gunnar shook his head again.  “Afterward, it . . . It was awkward,” he admitted.  “It shouldn’t have been, but it was.  You know, normally, I’d just make my excuses and take off, no harm, no foul, but . . . But it was Madison, and somehow, it felt as though I should . . . should stay, should . . . I don’t know, make small talk or whatever—make sure that everything was all right . . . But I just kept thinking, I know her, and I like her, and . . . and, yes, I respect her, too.  She’s a friend, and it wasn’t worth the risk of ruining that, but I . . .”

Mikio snorted indelicately.  “Since when do you care about something like that?” he challenged.  “You don’t care about anything or anyone.  You never have.  You got what you wanted from her, and—”  Yet, even as the words left his mouth, he regretted them.  He knew better, didn’t he?  He knew . . .

Gunnar’s irritation showed in the tick of his jaw, the slight flare of his nostrils.  But he nodded slowly.  “Don’t insult Madison like that,” he growled.  “Do you honestly think it was a case of what I wanted?  That she just . . . what?  Went along with it to please me?  Because as much as you may not want to hear it, that’s not how she is, either.  She’s a smart woman—a savvy woman.  She knows very well, what she wants, too.  You can accept that or you can’t, but I didn’t take advantage of her, any more than she took advantage of me.”

“If that was supposed to make me feel better, then you failed,” Mikio shot back.

Gunnar looked like he wanted to yell.  In the end, he drew a deep breath instead.  “Listen, Mikio, that’s not it.  I’m just pointing out what you really should know.  It doesn’t make her a bad person, any more than it makes me a bastard.  It was one time—just once—and I make no excuses for it, one way or the other.  I only tell you this because you must know that she isn’t as simple as all that.   She’s seen more, done more, lived more than most others her age have—and I hope you can understand and appreciate that about her, too.”

“I think I know, what she is and isn’t,” Mikio replied, and though the overwhelming anger was abating slowly, the coldness he couldn’t hide was not.

Gunnar sighed, rubbing his eyes in an exasperated kind of way.  “You know, don’t you, that she’s slept with Evan for years, right?  That doesn’t bother you, but what she and I did . . . It does?  Why?”

“Are you serious, Gunnar?” Mikio snapped. “Evan and she grew up together, were friends before anything else.  No matter what they did or didn’t do, he loves her, doesn’t he?  And that . . . You, though . . . You say that you didn’t want to ruin your friendship?  You respect her?  Yet, you still make it sound like it wasn’t anything more than a notch in the bedpost?” Mikio growled, ignoring the unvoiced questions that hit just a little too close to home for his comfort.

“Do you think it was something more than that to her?  Because it wasn’t,” Gunnar shot back.  “So, maybe we used each other.  I can’t change it now, and I couldn’t read the future back then any more than I can now.  It didn’t occur to me that you might come along, that you might take offense to it.  Madison . . . She’s nothing at all like most of the women we know.  You know that, too, don’t you?”

“And what do you mean by that?” Mikio demanded, feeling the edges of his strained self-control, the anger that had abated, just a little, spiraling higher once more, rapidly fraying, twisting away from him before he could even hope to get a grip on himself again.

“I mean,” Gunnar said, his tone deepening even as his words slowed—a sure sign that he was fighting to control his own rising irritation.  “I mean that there are three kinds of women in this world: the type that are hardened to the point where they won’t let anyone near them, not ever, not for anything—and they’re sad and pathetic because they gave up on everything . . . The type that are so weak, so timid, that they can’t do anything for themselves, that need someone to tell them how and when and why . . . And then, there are the rare women who can do for themselves, who know who they are, who don’t need someone else to define them.  They’re the ones who can take it or leave it, and they’re just fine in the end—the type that knows what they want and how to get it—the strong ones that you want to protect, but you don’t have to . . . that you want to provide for, but she won’t let you . . . the ones who walk beside you instead of two steps behind or ahead of you, and Madison?  She’s that one.  She . . .” Suddenly, he uttered a rueful chuckle, gave a little shrug.  “She has the heart of a tai-youkai.”

The anger that had been building inside him seemed to calm at Gunnar’s heartfelt words.  No matter his own feelings, Mikio knew damn well that what he’d just said was something that he would never say about just anyone, and the only thing left behind was a melancholy—and the knowledge that, no matter what Gunnar said, the outcome wouldn’t—couldn’t—change.

Gunnar sighed.  “Listen, Mikio . . . If you think that I don’t know those things you don’t say, I do.  All our lives, I’ve known that you . . . That you don’t feel like the rest of us, that you never have.  You’ve . . . You’ve always believed that you were different, maybe even a little less, because of your limitations.  It’s not true, you know.  It’s neither good nor bad.  It’s just who you are . . . and I know, too, that you’ve always avoided women, and I know why.  Just because you’ve never talked about it doesn’t mean that we were unaware.”  He shook his head, pinned Mikio with a penetrating stare, as though he were trying to see into Mikio’s mind.  “That’s on you to figure out, but if it matters, if you care . . . a woman like Madison?  She’s worth the effort.”

 

-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-

 

Settling in at the small and rather private table toward the back in the corner of Luscious, the transgender bar where she’d taken Mikio before, Madison frowned thoughtfully as she shifted her gaze around the club.  The atmosphere seemed oddly subdued despite the general din of the customers that filled the establishment.

Or maybe, it was all in her head.  She didn’t know.

She hadn’t meant to come here, exactly.  She was just too restless to go home, back to her solitary existence within the confines of the home she used to love.  Just when had it gone from being her sanctuary to some place that felt so hollow, so empty?

So, she’d ended up here on a whim, really, and why not?  It was the perfect place to be whenever she felt like some kind of freak, like some kind of misfit in her own skin.

Like tonight.

Still, as the moments ticked away, that sense of unease grew—the feeling that something was off, that it wasn’t just in her mind . . .

“Hey, Mads.  Been a while.”

Blinking away the last, lingering bits of her bemusement, Madison turned her head, met the gaze of the infamous Sin.  Glossy black locks—as black as midnight—carefully arranged in a crazy cascade of kinky curls that hung to her slim waist, the owner and purveyor of Luscious offered Madison a half-hearted smile that didn’t quite reach those soulful ebony eyes, and as quickly as the smile had surface, it was gone, and Sin heaved a heavy sigh.  “What can I get you?”

Waving away the question with a shake of her head, Madison frowned.  “What’s going on?” she asked instead.  “It feels . . .”

Sin stared at her for several moment—moments that felt heavy, almost stifling.  Finally, she gave one curt nod.  “I’ll be right back,” she said, turning on her heel, sauntering away, the slight jingle of the decorative metal discs that were affixed to the hem of her the airy black gauzy skirt sounding in her wake as she stepped away.

Rubbing her forearms to dispel the gooseflesh inspired by Sin’s uncharacteristically pensive mood, she only had to wait a couple minutes until the woman returned with two glasses and a bottle of wine.  “May I join you?” Sin asked, gesturing at the seat across from her with the wine glasses.

Madison held out a hand to indicate that she should join her.  Sin took her time, pouring the wine, swirled Madison’s a few times before setting it delicately on the table before her and repeating the process with the second glass.  Only then did she finally sit down, letting out a deep breath, a soft sigh, as she slowly shook her head.  “I take it you’re not here because you heard about what happened to Jazz,” she finally said.

Madison stopped, dead still, as her brain seemed to slow to a crawl.  “What?  Did something happen to her?”

Sin didn’t look surprised, but she did grimace, as though she really didn’t want to say what she had on her mind. Opening her mouth, just to catch the left side of her lower lip, gently gnawing on it with the pearly white teeth that contrasted so starkly against the deep mocha of her skin, the wine-burgundy of her lips, Sin seemed to be pondering her answer.   “Her mama came in last week,” she said, and suddenly, almost pathetically, she choked out a hoarse laugh that was devoid of humor, full of the worst kind of sadness.  “I’ve never seen such a white woman in my life,” she went on, her tone, almost amused—almost.  “Wearing this pink skirt and jacket—hopelessly PC, you know?  Virgin white silk blouse and a string of pearls . . . She even smelled expensive, Mads!  Can you picture her in her sensible shoes and her Coach bag?  Hair, done up in a hopelessly boring, but entirely motherly bun . . . Brown eyes, trying not to look horrified—she thought she was doing a good job of hiding it, right?  Her disgust, her disdain . . . Her perfect makeup and her perfect poise . . .” Sin half-chuckled, half-snarled as her eyes narrowed just a little bit.  “Her perfectly pristine white gloves . . .”

“What did she want?” Madison asked, unsure, whether or not she really wanted an answer.

Sin took a moment, sipped the wine.  It was an old bottle—a very old bottle—and somewhere in the depths of her memories, Madison seemed to recall Sin, mentioning the bottle she kept; one for a night when she might need just a little more courage to make it through, and she grimaced inwardly.

“She told Jazz that her daddy had died.  She wanted Jazz to come home with her, that she missed . . . her . . .” Sin winced, shook her head, the rhinestones affixed to the corners of her very dramatic false eyelashes, glittering almost obscenely in the dim light.  “What am I saying?  She refused to call her, ‘her’.  She kept calling her Jeffrey . . .”

Madison sighed, rubbed her forehead as she reached for the glass of wine.  “Of course, she would,” she agreed.

Sin’s expression became almost belligerent, and she uttered a terse snort.  “Jazzy told her to go home, that she didn’t want to leave, but her mama kept insisting, and she tried to keep from making a scene for a little while, so there was that.  But, when it came time for Jazz’s shift to start, when she went back and took off her shirt and came back out?  Oh, you’d have thought that her mama had seen the devil himself, and it might have been funny, the way her pupils grew huge, the way she clutched at her chest, like she was going to have a heart attack or something like that . . . It got pretty ugly, to the point that I had to call the fuzz to escort Mommie Dearest out of the club.  She was following Jazz from table to table, yelling at her about how she was going to hell, how she was unnatural, how her very existence was blasphemy against God . . .”

“Oh, damn,” Madison breathed.

Sin sighed again.  “It wasn’t funny, no, and yet . . . Well, it kind of was, and Jazz . . . She tried to laugh it off, but when it was time to close up, I asked her if she wanted to come over, to crash at my place.  I mean, I didn’t know if her mama was waiting for her or what, you know?  But I thought . . .” Trailing off, she said nothing for several seconds.  Finally, though, she shook her head, her gaze clearing, and she tried to smile.  “That was the last time we saw her.  Well, you know . . .”

“What do you mean?” Madison asked, knowing what she meant well enough, but not wanting to understand.

Sin drained her glass and refilled it after topping off Madison’s.  “Beth was worried, too, so she stopped by Jazz’s apartment, and she found . . . Jazz’s body . . . along with about five bottles of different pills.  She said the place was a wreck, and, if you knew Jazz, then you knew she was about as neat as they came.  Beth said it looked like there had been some kind of fight or something . . . The cops called it suicide after taking a look around for about ten minutes, and they sent Jazz to the morgue.  We found out when the viewing was, and her mama let us be, but I remember thinking, she had a strange look about her—a weird kind of triumphant expression, which made no sense.  I mean, she was burying her child, right?  So, why . . .?”  She sighed again, slowly, almost eerily, lifted her eyes to meet Madison’s—not her face, just her eyes.  “She was laid out in the coffin—a gleaming white coffin with silver trim, royal blue silk and satin lining . . . But it wasn’t . . . Jazz,” she went on quietly.  “That . . . That woman . . . She’d had the undertaker cut Jazz’s hair, wiped off all her glitz and glam.  She buried Jeffrey, you see?  She’d buried Jeffrey, not Jazz, and . . .” She flinched.  “And there wasn’t a goddamn thing we could do about it.”

 

 

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A/N:

STILL ON HIATUS … Just wanted to check in and let you all know that I’m thinking of you, hoping you’re all safe and doing well.  I send you all my love and well-wishes!

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Reviewers

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MMorg
oblivion-bringr ——— Sora ——— CarmMeldoll

 

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AO3
Calvarez ——— minthegreen ——— Cutechick18 ——— Amanda+J+Gauger ——— Elizabeth ——— sutlesarcasm ——— ThatGuy ——— TheWonderfulShoe ——— Sovereignty3 ——— Elarem ——— DarkOrb ——— Mamazero

 

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Final Thought from Madison:
… What …?!

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Blanket disclaimer for this fanfic (will apply to this and all other chapters in Anomaly):  I do not claim any rights to InuYasha or the characters associated with the anime/manga.  Those rights belong to Rumiko Takahashi, et al.  I do offer my thanks to her for creating such vivid characters for me to terrorize.

 

~Sue~