InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Metempsychosis ❯ Change of Plans ( Chapter 60 )

Leaning against the door since she didn't really trust her legs to hold her, Jessa struggled to breathe, eyes closed, willing herself not to try to think too hard, not to let her question herself as the sound of running water registered vaguely in her mind.

On the one hand, maybe she should have fought him, maybe she ought to have tried to stop him, and yet, she couldn't, could she?  She never had been able to resist him because she didn't really want to, and she knew it.  He was her weakness, maybe her addiction . . . and now . . .

Eyes flying open when the warmth of the dampened paper towels touched her between her still spread legs, Jessa glanced down, only to find Ashur there, kneeling before her, gently washing her, and the tenderness in his touch brought a fine sheen of tears to her eyes.  What was it about the infinite gentleness that he was showing her that all but stripped away her strongest resolve?

He didn't speak as he cleaned her up, as he carefully fixed her panties, as he straightened her skirt.  Finally, though, he sighed, leaning back, resting his forearm on his raised knee, the paper towels dangling from his limp hand.  "You can't leave me, Jessa," he said, his words barely more than a whisper.  "If you do . . ."

She winced, sank to the floor as she slowly shook her head.  "I . . . I don't want to," she admitted just as quietly.  "I . . . I never wanted to . . ."

Slowly—painfully slowly—he lifted his gaze to meet hers without lifting his head, and the emotion she saw in his eyes made her blink, made her heart skip an unsteady beat.  For a moment—just for a moment—she almost thought . . . "Then you'll come home with me?"

She swallowed hard, opening her mouth for words that were stuck somewhere between her lips and her lungs.  "I . . ."

The curt knock on the door made her jump, almost made her shriek.  Instead, she scooted to the side, huddling against the wall as Ashur heaved a sigh and pushed himself to his feet, tossing the towels into the trashcan over by the tiny sink before casting her an inscrutable glance and yanking the door open just a crack.  "I'm a little—"

Very blatant throat-clearing made Jessa wince.  "Uh, Chelsea's . . . stalling, but it's time for you."

She recognized that voice.  It was Evan, wasn't it?

Ashur heaved a sigh.  "I can't—damn it . . . I'll be right there."

Evan chuckled.  "Okay, I'll let her know, but for the record?  You really have shitty timing, Ash."

Ashur sighed again, his agitation a palpable thing.  Standing there with his hand on the door handle, he glanced at her and shook his head.  "I promised Gin . . . I'll be right back.  Stay here."

She blinked as the door closed behind him, frowning at the hasty departure.  Promised Gin?  What had he promised her?

Pushing herself to her feet, she started to follow him, but for some reason, a sudden rush of trepidation surged through her, and she jerked her hand back before she could open the door.

'I don't know, Jessa.  He asked you to stay here.'

For some reason, Jessa shook her head, grasped the handle, gave it a yank.

She couldn't miss the blatant stares as she stepped out of the little room, didn't miss the smirks and the whispers as she lifted her chin a notch and strode toward the staircase.  It seemed to her that everyone was watching her—some amused, some appalled, some merely curious—and far too many youkai . . .

"Guess he needed a little distraction . . . Can't blame him . . . This thing is always a little boring, ha ha . . ."

"Disgusting!  No shame at all!  Just look at her, will you . . .?"

"Can't blame her . . . I mean, he's hotter than hell . . ."

"Why on earth would the Zeligs have invited a tramp like that . . .?"

Biting down on the inside of her cheek, she tried to block them out, deliberately chose not to think about just what they knew or thought they knew . . . tried not to think at all . . .

"And it's time for our last bachelor of the night!  This is Ashur Philips.  He's a very fine hunk of man, isn't he?" another woman's voice rang out, clear and a little husky, almost on the dusty side of a near-purr, Jessa stopped, eyes widening as she watched Ashur, who stood beside the black-haired hanyou woman on the small stage that the band had occupied before.  "Ashur is a man of mystery, currently enjoying the good life after selling the company he worked tirelessly to build.  He's recently moved to Canada, but I've been told that he's due to be around New York City for the next week, so, ladies, get out your paddles because a fine man like him isn't going to go cheap!  Now, who wants to start the bidding?"

"Twenty thousand!" a voice rang out, clear as day, and Jessa gritted her teeth as Amy Baker held up a glittered number paddle.

"Twenty-five," another woman called out.  She, however, was lost in shadows, and Jessa couldn't see her.

'What . . . is going on . . .?'

But even as the question occurred to her, she knew, didn't she?  The fabled bachelor auction that she'd heard whispers of all evening, and yet, there Ashur stood, hands in his pockets, a slight and somewhat bored little smile on his lips . . .

And she couldn't help the little whimper that slipped out of her as she stood, horrified, as the bids came fast and furious—as her world shattered entirely, completely, unrelentingly . . .

Jessa stood under the hot water, eyes closed, as the steady flow ran over her head, down her body, down the drain . . .

"If you live long enough, everyone lets you down eventually."

Her eyes burned, hot, dry—ironic, wasn't it, given that she stood under a downpour of water . . .? A hoarse whimper slipped from her as the words came at her again—ghost whispers in the dark . . .

"He sent me away . . . He was . . . How do you say?  He was my, uh, one love?  But he cannot . . . cannot . . . forget me?"

Nowhere to turn, no one at all . . . Everyone she loved . . . They were dead, or . . .

'Ashur . . .'

"She's only staying with me as a favor for her cousin—nothing more, nothing less . . . Is there something wrong with having casual sex with someone? . . . She's nothing more than a good fuck . . . Don't know if she'd have you, though.  You're a bit ugly for her tastes, and even then, she's a little clumsy—not really that good."

Why was she so cold?  Standing under the steaming flow, and it wasn't nearly enough . . .

"His nanny?  How ridiculous!  Did you see her face?  I mean, sure, she's kind of all right looking—if you like Raggedy Ann, anyway . . . And that dress?  Who on earth wears a color like that to something like this?  She stands out more than Gin Zelig does . . . Trying to outshine the hostess?  Truly bad taste . . ."

"In all the wrong ways, maybe.  I mean, wearing a red dress with her hair?  She looks like a damn whore!"

“No wonder the general didn’t want her to be his son’s nanny!  I mean, a nanny?  Her?  Ri-i-i-ight . . . Girl like her?  Probably too busy, flirting with every guy that came around!  Thinking she’s all that and then some!  Good thing he fired her!”

But even the sound of all the taunts, all the sneers, even in her head where no one else could hear . . . She choked out a sound—not a sob, not a groan—a pathetic little sound, like a broken thing . . .

"Disgusting!  No shame at all!  Just look at her, will you . . .?"

"Why on earth would the Zeligs have invited a tramp like that . . .?"

The escape from the hotel, her blind flight, down the emergency stairwell, the flash of the bulbs of a score of reporters from tabloids, from online magazines, from newspapers as she broke through the front doors without waiting for the doormen to yank them out of the way . . . Shoes in her hands, barefoot, she ran, ignoring the words—so many, many words . . .

And after all of it—all of it—that wild surge of hope, that crazy notion that she'd thought she'd seen . . . something . . . in his eyes . . .

And the overwhelming understanding that she was nothing but a stupid, foolish little girl—a little girl with an unattainable dream that had all come crashing down on her . . .

"You can't leave me, Jessa . . ."

Those words . . . Those were the ones that wrenched a sob from her, that shredded the last remaining strand of hope that she didn't know she’d had.

There was nothing, was there?  Nothing at all, and . . . and there never had been . . . She was no better than a toy to him, was she?  Nothing of value, nothing worth . . . worth keeping . . .

And she saw it now, didn't she?  The scope of her life, all laid out—those things she hadn't been able to see before . . . As clear as crystal, as empty as the desert—a lifetime of nothing at all.  Those words her mother had said what seemed like a lifetime ago . . . She understood it now, didn't she?

"It's better to be content, Jessa.  Look for it where you can find it.  Marriage is only what you can make of it, you know.  There's more to life than being someone's mate, someone's mother.  As much as I love your da, it wasn't always like that. Back in the old days . . . Nothing is really permanent, no matter what they might say.  You were born to be a marchioness, maybe more.  Sometimes it's more important to do what's expected of you, to live a completely unremarkable life . . . It's your responsibility.  You weren't born a Daughtery, as I was.  You were born an O'Shea, and you must live your life as one . . ."

Shutting off the shower taps, Jessa wrapped her hair in a towel and struggled into her robe without bothering to dry herself off first.  Maybe . . . Maybe she wasn't born to be happy, or maybe she simply didn't know how to find it . . . Maybe she never had . . . Her mother, and those things she'd tried so hard to impart her . . . Those things she hadn't understood, not back then, but now . . .

A million moments flashed through her head: telling Orliath about the mean girls at school or at lessons or . . . or wherever, and her mother's sad smile as she told her to suck it up, a lady was above all of that . . .  Of her mother ordering her nanny to spend hours, straight-ironing her hair, using black rinse on her hair every morning, trying to wash away the color that made Jessa stand out, just a little too much . . . Of her father, running his hand over her hair, of the despised curls springing right back, of the black rinse fading away under his gentle flames, burning out the color until the ungodly red shone through . . .

"They make fun of her at school, Niall!  That ridiculous hair of hers . . ."

"It's no' ridiculous!  Her hair—"

"You've never been a girl!  You have no idea how mean they can be!"

"An' colorin' it daily?  That's gonna put a stop to it?  Now ye're jus' bein' silly, Orlie.  Jessa should be praut!  Praut o' all o' her!"

Frowning at herself in the mirror, Jessa's gaze fell away.  How in the world could she have thought that Ashur—beautiful Ashur—could grow to care about her?  The joke?  The Raggedy Ann of every school she'd ever attended?  She'd aimed too high, dreamed too big, and now . . .

Now, there was nothing left for her, was there?  Nothing at all . . . but . . .

Yanking open the bathroom door, ignoring the cold air that hit her, full-on, she hurried out of the bedroom, down the hallway and steps to grab the telephone.  Her hands were shaking as she scrolled through the caller ID memory.  Biting her lip, she dialed the number, closing her eyes against the pain that stabbed at her chest, at her heart, as the call connected.

"MacDonnough."

"My lord," she said, her voice thin, reedy to her own ears.  "I'm . . . I'm sorry if it's late there . . . This is Jessa . . . Jessamyn O'Shea . . ."

"Lady O'Shea . . . To what do I owe the honor of this call?"

She flinched at the sarcasm in his tone, and she had to swallow hard to get past the growing knot in her throat.  "I . . . I was thinking about your . . . your offer . . ."

"The one you said you would . . . never accept?"

Gripping the receiver so tightly that her fingertips leeched white, she steeled her resolve as the click of the door in the distance occurred to her but went ignored.  "I . . . I'll accept your terms," she said.  "Please, if you . . . if you could, I . . . I need to return to Ireland as soon as possible . . ."

"Good . . . Good . . . I'm pleased to hear that you've come to your senses.  Just to show you that there are no ill-feelings, I'll make the arrangements for you.  I'll even order that your estate be opened to you upon your return."

"Thank you," she replied as an odd sense of finality, a strange sort of numbness, settled over her.

"I'll send someone over with your itinerary as soon as the arrangements are made, but I trust you'll be ready to travel within the next twenty-four hours."

"Yes, of course," she said.

The line went dead, and Jessa let out a deep breath as she let the receiver drop back into the docking station.

"Jessa?  What did you just do?"

She gasped at the deceptive quiet in her cousin's tone, and, very slowly, she turned to face her, unable to meet her gaze as she stared at the floor.  "I . . . I'm taking Lord MacDonnough's offer," she said, crossing her arms over her stomach.  "I'm going home."

"Here," Myrna said, slipping a glass of wine into Jessa's quaking hands as she sat down on the sofa beside her.  The girl's hands were shaking, her fingers as cold as ice when she touched them, and she stared at the floor in an eerily blank sort of way.  She sighed.  "You need to tell me everything, Jessa."

"There's nothing to tell," Jessa said in a monotone.

Myrna frowned, set her glass aside as she stood up, as she stepped around the sofa to gently pull the towel from Jessa's hair.  Using it to squeeze the rest of the moisture out of her locks, she scowled at the girl's silence.  "There is something," she finally said.  "You're in love with him, aren't you?"

Jessa's back stiffened despite Myrna's attempt to be gentle with her tone.  "Of . . . Of course, not . . . I . . ."

"Oh, honey . . ." Myrna sighed.  "Is he your mate?"

Her chin dipped a little lower as she pulled her feet up and wrapped her arms around them, careful not to spill her glass.  "N . . . No . . . No, he never . . . He isn't . . ."

"Are you . . . sure . . .?"

Resting her chin on her knees, Jessa gave her head just the tiniest shake.  "He . . . He's in love with someone else—someone from his past.  He never was . . . mine . . ."

"Jessa—"

Jessa cleared her throat.  "He . . . He paid me, Myrna."

"Well, sure.  I mean, you . . . you took care of Kells, right?"

"For sex."

Myrna's brain screeched to a dead stop.  ". . . What?"

Jessa sighed, probably because of the absolute menace in Myrna's one-word question.  "Every time we . . . There were . . . 'gifts' . . . I don't think he saw them as . . . But that's what it . . . felt like . . ."

"Babykins . . ."  Heaving a sigh of her own, Myrna stepped around the sofa and sat back down again, only this time, she reached over, pulled Jessa against her, held her like she was little more than a small child who'd had a bad dream . . . "You'd better start at the beginning."

For a moment, Myrna didn't think she would.  Slowly, though, she relaxed against Myrna's chest, her head resting against her heart.  "I . . . I don't know," she admitted, a hint of panic creeping into her tone.  "I don't know how it started . . . I don't . . . I don't know . . ."

"It's okay; it's okay," Myrna assured her, rubbing her shoulder, her arm as she rocked gently from side to side.  "What do you want to tell me?"

"He . . . He said he didn't want to be my . . . my lifetime regret . . ." Jessa murmured, her voice muffled slightly.  Suddenly, she barked out a terse laugh that morphed into a choked sob as Myrna winced.  "Lifetime . . . regret . . ."

Myrna grimaced, unable to say, unable to do, anything, unable to reconcile the vile feeling of complete and utter helplessness that coursed through her as she held her cousin, as Jessa dissolved in a gale of tears—ugly tears, bitter tears . . . So many moments, during the course of the evening—the ill-conceived dinner and gala . . . It had taken Myrna all of ten seconds to realize the truth of it . . . Watching as Jessa looked for Ashur, time and time again, and the ocean of sadness that she simply couldn't hide . . . The girl had stared at him with her heart on her sleeve, that kind of expression that bespoke the absolute love, akin to almost hero-worship . . . The pain in her aura as she'd watched him dance with girl after girl that wasn't her . . .

And if there had been any doubt in Myrna's mind?  She'd seen Jessa's face when she danced with Ashur—that crazy-mad kind of love that she wore on her cuff . . . It was there for everyone to see, and as far she could tell, everyone had . . . And that foolish, stupid man hadn't seen it, had he?  Didn't recognize it for what it was . . .

And then, he'd dragged her off, and Myrna didn't delude herself into thinking that people either missed that or that they'd thought nothing of it.  She'd heard the whispers, the snide comments . . . And those people hadn't known a damn thing.  All they had seen was a man who hadn't danced with Jessa for more than a few minutes, and . . .

She grimaced, gritting her teeth at the thousands little comments she'd wanted to make, but hadn't.  Afraid of making it all even worse for Jessa, she'd kept her temper in check.  Curse the luck that there were so many youkai in attendance, because it was all entirely too clear when Ashur, then Jessa, had emerged from that room . . . And Myrna had watched, absolutely horrified, as the girl descended the staircase, as she'd realized that Ashur was up on that damned auction block, and she'd seen it in her face—Jessa hadn't known, didn't understand . . .

And Myrna's heart had broken when the girl ran out of there, fighting back tears, trying so hard to block out the whispers and the murmurs and the ugly, cruel words . . . and Myrna . . . Well, she’d done the one and only thing that she could at that time: she’d bought Ashur, the damned fool, and it had been more of an impulse than anything.  Now, however . . . She was glad that she’d done it.

"But why, Jess?  Why in the hell did you agree to MacDonnough's ridiculous offer?" Myrna finally asked, kissing the girl on the head, taking her glass of wine and setting it aside, too.  "MacDonnough doesn't care about you, doesn't care about what you want . . . You know that, don't you?"

"What does it matter?" Jessa rasped out, struggling to sit up, to glower at Myrna.  "None of it matters!  Nothing . . ." She choked on a sob.  "Nothing matters . . .  I don't matter to . . . to anyone . . . and—"

Myrna reached out, grasped Jessa's chin, gently but firmly.  "No!  You are not allowed to pretend that you don't matter, Jessamyn O'Shea!  You're not allowed to think it; you're not allowed to believe it.  It's not true.  You matter, little girl!  If nothing else, you matter to me!  Don't sell yourself short.  I don't care what those girls tonight said, what anyone there tonight said; I don't care what those snotty little rags at your fancy schools said.  You.  Are.  Beautiful—and if someone like Ashur Philips convinced you otherwise, then he's a damn fucking fool.  Do you hear me?"

Jessa blinked, stared at her.  "Myrna, you don't—"

"I said, 'no'!" Myrna growled.

Jessa tried to nod, tried to agree, but she choked, her face crumpling one more time.

And then, the tears came again . . .