Instance Ch. 01

He nodded a 'yes', but she suspected he'd avoid her, as he always did, once the chairs were stacked away.

She gave him a small smile and he returned it. He knew. Knew he'd disappointed her again. On the day she stopped being disappointed, she suspected he'd stop coming. Someone had to pretend to be surprised he'd failed himself again.

She moved on to Callie. "And how did things go for you this week?"

After the meeting, Brooke approached Jackson as he made himself a coffee at the back of the hall.

"The curious case of the disappearing Dobermans," she said, leaning against the trestle table.

"Well, technically, one stayed behind," said Jackson. He stirred his coffee and dropped the spoon into a paper cup. He nodded towards the urn. "Do you want one?"

Brooke shook her head. Her mind was still elsewhere. "How did you not see nine Dobermans in the middle of the road in time to stop?"

Jackson lifted his coffee to his lips. "The dogs weren't the problem. I saw them in time, but then I hit something else." He frowned.

"Hit what?"

Jackson shrugged uncomfortably. "I know it wasn't the dog. I didn't get that close. Whatever I hit, it was like..." he trailed off.

It'd felt as if he'd smashed through a paper wall; one of those Japanese screens made from paper, and wood that weighs nothing. But he was loath to say it out loud.

"How are you still alive?" Brooke asked.

He laughed and shook his head. "Lucky, is how. The left side of the car was all pole. My airbag didn't even deploy. Got a bit of a scrape is all."

He touched the side of his head gingerly.

Brooke followed his fingers with hers, and felt a wound, hidden by his hair.

Jackson stilled under her touch. "Ow."

Undeterred, she parted his hair and found a shaved patch.

"Stitches?"

"Yeah. Seven." He grinned.

Brooke shook her head. He was so proud of his fucking stitches, like a five year old. But he was cute, and he had a certain charm, and she was currently short on friends.

She let his hair settle back into place. "Hey—you want to go somewhere and get a coffee that doesn't taste like arse?"

His eyes glittered, he was so happy at the invitation. "Sure."

"Let's get out of here."

Jackson dropped his undrunk coffee back on the table, and they headed for the door.

Ana glanced up as the two left together and felt a twinge of frustration. But it was up to Jackson to learn his lessons in his own time. She just hoped he didn't lose his career in the meantime.

Starbucks

"Do you want me to shout you?" Brooke asked, as they lined up at the counter.

Jackson shot her a glance. "Why would I?"

"You being an unemployed bum and all."

He gave her a tight smile. "Unemployed, not broke."

He reached the front of the line and ordered a Venti Latte, then turned back to Brooke. "What would you like? Obviously keep it to under three dollars so I don't have to take out a loan."

She laughed, point taken, and said to the server, "I'll have what he's having."

They found a table against the wall and Jackson ran his gaze over Brooke as she put her bag by her chair.

Her hair was a dark, styled mess, her blue eyes the colour of ink, her gaze sharp. Her lips were a matt violet, and she had a philtrum piercing above her upper lip. Her breasts tented her oversized shirt, holding it away from her body, but he could tell from the way her jeans hugged her legs, that her hips and arse curved up to a narrow waist.

Her hands, curled around her coffee travel cup, were decorated with silver rings.

He realised her gaze was dissecting him in turn, and tried not to think about the curry stain on the hem of his shirt. Grew aware that spraying on cologne was not a substitute for using a washing machine.

"So how long have you been going to group?" Brooke asked.

Jackson shrugged. "About eight months. I got ordered to after I got a DUI, and then I kept going. Seemed like a good idea."

"A DUI?" There was disapproval there.

"Yeah. Drove off the road and totalled my car—"

"Sounds familiar," she said.

"No, no, not like that," he said. "I was stone cold sober last Friday."

"When you saw nine dogs appear out of nowhere, then disappear again?"

He nodded slowly as he toyed with the plastic at the rim of his travel cup. "Okay, I know how that sounds."

"What are the chances you imagined it? I mean, you'd just hit your head. Concussion—?"

"No, no, I took a photo, remember?" He fished in his pocket and pulled out his phone. He flicked past photos of meals he'd pretended to eat, of things he needed to remember to fix, and people he was no longer with, and found the one he wanted. He held the phone out to her. "You can't see much, but..."

She took the phone from him. You really couldn't see much. Yellow streaks in the dark. She could be looking at anything.

She handed the phone back. "Not exactly conclusive evidence."

Jackson looked at the photo, and it still excited him. He set the phone back on the table. "I reckon someone with Photoshop might be able to enhance it. Anyway, what else has eyes at that height? You can tell it was dogs."

Brooke didn't want to burst his bubble, so she nodded, thinking, maybe a pack of dingoes... but nine Dobermans? Probably not.

"So, what brought you to group?" Jackson asked.

Brooke took the plastic travel lid off her cup and looked down into her coffee.

"Bad breakup, stressful job." She took a breath in, let it out. She looked up at him. "You know what? No, none of that. I started drinking because I felt so... fucking... helpless."

Tears pricked at her eyes, and Jackson resisted the urge to take her hand across the table, some instinct telling him it wouldn't be welcome.

"I'm so fucking sick of men always getting their way."

Her voice was full of a fury that made Jackson's testes shrink up into his body. He was afraid to ask. Afraid she was about to describe something men did that she hated, by proxy hating him.

"This fucking... munter of a coder at work, thought he was God's gift. Kept telling my boss my code was creating all the fucking compiling issues. Lying little prick."

She looked up at Jackson.

"Do you know what happens when a woman argues with the lead-dev golden boy?"

Jackson shook his head.

"I got made redundant. Coding since I was thirteen, and this fuck lies to cover his own ass, and I get made redundant. Two weeks later, replaced with some prick he used to 'mentor'. What a cunt."

Jackson concluded she was angry.

"They can't do that though, can they?" he asked. "Don't you have a law against that here?"

She nodded. "Yep." Venom. "Took them to court and won. Got a settlement—ten grand." A bitter laugh. "Problem is, now no one will employ me."

Jackson wasn't sure where to look. He'd never faced this level of female outrage before. Wasn't sure how to respond.

"Have you tried—"

Brooke's eyes narrowed, and Jackson remembered advice from another lifetime. Shut up. Don't try and solve it. That's her job.

He glanced back at his coffee and changed tack. "That's shit. So, how are you surviving?"

"Carefully," she said. "I'm developing an app as a proof of concept. I should be able to sell it, provided I get it to market before someone else does."

Jackson was about to ask her about the app, but stopped as Brooke let out an explosive breath and slumped back in her seat. "And now, on top of that, I've got some creepy weirdo stalking me."

"What?"

"Last Friday, while you were hitting power poles, I got followed in my car by some creepy pedo-looking guy."

"Any idea why?"

Brooke shrugged. "None. I didn't cut anyone off, didn't pull out in front of anyone."

She took a sip of her latte, and her mind went back to solving the many mysteries of her existence.

Jackson dropped into his own reverie, thinking of the Dobermans milling in the middle of the road. Spooking into the wind.

He scratched his forearm, where the ribbon of a tattoo snaked up under his sleeve, then tugged his sleeve down over it.

"Show me?" said Brooke.

It took Jackson a moment to realise what she was talking about.

"Ah, you don't want to see it. It's dumb."

She grinned. "I have to see it now."

Jackson rolled his sleeve up.

Brooke made a face, a wince on his behalf.

"Why do you have an Illuminati tattoo? Are you a conspiracy theorist? I wouldn't have picked you as the type."

Jackson pulled his sleeve back over the tattoo.

"I was eighteen, and I needed to rebel against my parents. I saw it in the book and thought it looked cool. Didn't realise what it meant until I got a bit older, and by then it was far too late."

They were both quiet for a moment as they drank their coffee.

"So, you must be wondering why I drink," Brooke said after a bit.

Jackson shook his head. "Nope. 'Why' is that you're an addict."

"So—you don't drink because you're depressed, or because something shitty happened to you?"

He shrugged. "Not really, no. I mean, yes, I get depressed, and shitty things have definitely happened to me, but the same goes for everyone. I drink because I'm an addict, and drinking makes me feel good." He looked up at her. "Why, do you drink because something bad happened to you?"

She stared into her coffee. "It helps me sleep."

Jackson, trained not to ask questions when he heard a lie, kept quiet.

It was a while before she spoke again.

"I fucked up, Jackson."

"Jax is fine."

"Jax. I fucked up. And I'm frustrated. I can't control my goddamn mouth—or my temper. And I don't know what I'm doing here anymore."

Jackson's eyebrows drew together, but he resisted the temptation to ask.

She looked up at him. "Anyway, it's getting late. Thanks for the coffee."

She stood and picked up her bag, slinging it over her shoulder.

Jackson got to his feet. "Hey—can I get your number?"

She gave him a long look. "You know I'm gay, right?"

Jackson froze, a rodent caught in headlights.

Brooke grinned. "You still want that number?"

She watched his eyes, watched him absorb this information. Watched him process it and decide that yes, he did.

"What's your number?" she asked.

He gave it to her, and she sent him a text. His phone vibrated in his hand.

"Done."

He looked up from his phone. "Do you hug? I..." he trailed off.

But Brooke understood. She missed human contact too. For a moment she felt it all; the ache of the breakup, those last moments standing on the doorstep while the rain hit the ground like a water curtain, the brake lights of Jamie's car glowing red, then that slow turn as her car merged into traffic.

"Yeah, I hug. Come here."

She stepped in and hugged him, and he squeezed her back, both of them soaking up the heat from each other's bodies, feeding a need greater than sex or companionship. The simple need to touch another person.

As they stood, feeding their physical thirst, she felt that he was frail. He felt that she was robust. A little of her strength flowed into him, and a little of his humour flowed into her. An exchange. The glow would fade, but for tonight, they'd fed each other.

Brooke stepped back and straightened Jackson's shirt collar, then realised it couldn't be straightened without heat and metal, and let it spring back into a curl.

"See you at group next week?"

Jackson grinned, clearly pleased she intended to come back again. "Yeah. I'll be there," he said. "I'm always there."

"Take care of yourself, Jax." Her eyes became serious. "No one else will."

He gave her a look that said, really?, and she thought, Oh no. Not me. I'm not taking care of you.

"Call any time," he said.

As he watched her leave, Jackson couldn't understand why her rejection left him so happy. He concluded having someone to speak to, other than a succulent, wasn't the worst thing in the world.

Brooke

It was Saturday night, and Brooke knew she shouldn't have driven home. But she'd had to leave, even if she didn't feel up to driving.

She turned off the car's engine and listened to the metal tink as it cooled, too exhausted to extricate herself from the car.

She knew if she wanted to keep her friends, she should have stayed at the party longer. But she was tired. Tired of not drinking. Tired of being sober. Tired of feeling. All she wanted was numbness, for the world to narrow to a fine point, all the pain, all the anger, all the frustration lost in the darkness at the edges. But she couldn't drink. Wouldn't drink.

Might drink.

She thought of Jackson. Should she feel bad that she'd lied? She decided, no. It was for his own good. She could see his puppy-dog neediness a mile off, and didn't want to be made responsible for his happiness.

Besides, it'd been nearly ten years since she'd last dated a man. It could almost be true.

Almost.

But he was so cute! Those big hazel eyes, that mess of hair... that looked as if it needed a wash. In fact, all of him looked as if he needed a wash. Especially that shirt.

But no. He was an addict. The last thing she needed in her life. She'd read the books. She knew the risks. But a friend... she really did need a friend who wouldn't judge her right now.

She pushed open the car door and grabbed the strap of her bag, hauling it across the passenger seat towards her, and dragged herself out of the car.

But as she pressed the button on the fob to lock the car, she sensed something. Something wasn't right.

She glanced around. There was a cool breeze. Rain wasn't far away. She stayed still, listening. Listening.

Somewhere distant a dog barked, a danger warning. Someone in its yard, or more likely, taunted by a cat.

The neighbours' houses were dark and silent

She quietly took the steps up to the house, her pulse speeding. Breathing quietly. Listening.

At the door she paused before she put the key in the lock. Caught a whiff of something. Stale sweat. She knew it wasn't her.

But it wouldn't be the first time she'd imagined a smell from her past. Lately it seemed to happen a lot. A sudden memory of the ocean, and the smell of salt ripe in her nostrils, the bitter sting of it at the back of her throat. Or a waft of jasmine, the taste of honeysuckle taken from the stem of the flowers, that sweet scent overpowering. But not real. Not real.

She put her hand on the door knob. The door was still locked. There was no car parked in the driveway.

You can't live forever in fear, she told herself, and let herself into the house.

She laughed at herself as she switched on the light. She was so edgy these days, it was ridiculous. And then a fist hit the side of her face.

Jackson

Jackson pulled open the fridge and made a noise at the back of his throat as he realised the fridge was empty of beer. Not because he wanted one, but because it meant he'd drunk his weekly allotted six-pack already.

His first weekly allotted six pack for the week.

He put the kettle on and threw himself back down on the couch, picking up a game controller. He'd paused the game with a woman's face turned to the screen. She looked, he thought, a bit like Brooke.

Brooke, who was gay, and who wasn't going to date him. Who smelled of some dark perfume that she'd left on his shirt, his shirt that he still hadn't washed. Who'd starred, since their hug, in a couple of very pleasant dreams, and several more, entirely respectful, self-pleasuring sessions.

Brooke, who might have someone stalking her.

It was the first time in a long time he'd felt protective towards someone else. He got that she didn't think she needed his help. But even people who didn't need looking after didn't usually mind if you looked after them a bit, from time to time.

He glanced over at his phone, sitting beside him on the couch. Her hug had woken a desperation in him to have hands on his body; hands belonging to someone who knew his secrets. To be touched. Appreciated.

He lay back against the couch, his legs splayed, the game controller resting against his thigh.

They'd exchanged numbers, shared a hot beverage together. They were friends now, weren't they? That meant he could text her. Just to say 'hi.' Just to say 'I'm alive' and have her respond 'I care'. Or just 'hi' back would be fine.

He picked up the phone and unlocked it. It was eleven-thirty at night. Was it creepy to text her this late? She might think he wanted a hook-up. Inspiration. He could ask her if she wanted to get lunch tomorrow. She'd appreciate him making plans the night before, rather than early in the morning, wouldn't she? He knew he would. There was no way he'd hear his phone on a Sunday morning otherwise.

He looked back at the face on the TV screen.

Back at his phone.

If she thought he was creepy, she might not come to the next meeting, and he'd be interfering with her progress. Something Ana always asked them to think about before getting involved with other group members.

But—if she answered; he'd have a really good night. And right now, he needed to have a good night.

He sent her a text.

'Hey, it's me, Jax. Just checking to make sure you're not drinking. ;-)'

He sent it before he could second-guess himself, then read the text back. Oh God, he'd sent a winky face. He knew better. Oh well. It was sent now.

He put the phone down on the couch beside him. Glanced at it. She's not going to answer. She'd be out with her friends. Like normal people were on a Saturday night.

He picked up the game controller and unpaused the game.

His phone beeped.

Shit that was fast. He picked up his phone in his left hand, heart pounding. Hoping it wasn't an angry request for him to never text her again.

The text was empty.

The phone beeped again. 'hekll'

He read and re-read it, confused. What the hell did 'hekll' mean?

He started to type back to her, asking her to explain the joke, and stopped. Checked the location of the letters on his smartphone's keyboard. H. E. 'L' was next to 'k'. 'P' was next to 'l'. If you were typing in a hurry...

He pressed the call button.

Brooke answered in a whisper. "Help me, please call the cops." She gave him her address. "Don't call back, he'll hear the phone."

The call died before he could say anything.

He called the police with shaking hands and grabbed his car keys. He tossed a baseball bat into the back seat of the car and jumped in. Her address was only fifteen minutes' drive away. He might even get there first.

Brooke

Brooke pushed her phone back under her body, muffling any sound it might make. It was on silent, but the vibration might bring him back. And she didn't want him to come back.

She was sure something in her face was broken. Her cheek ached, a hot, constant throb.

She could hear her attacker ransacking the house, mumbling under his breath. She couldn't make out what he was saying, but it sounded as though he was repeating a series of letters to himself over and over again, sometimes interspersed with an exclamation; 'Fucking knew it!'. Then the mumbling would start again.

She heard him coming back towards her, and did her best to appear unconscious as his shoes scuffed close to her face. She could smell the man's foot odour and the sour stink of his unwashed armpits. He smelt like a walking bacteria factory.

He crouched, his stink pushing its way into her nostrils, and rasped at her, "Where is it?"

She kept her eyes closed.

He pushed her shoulder with one pudgy hand. "I want the controller. The one you used to open the portal. Where is it?"

What the fuck?

He pushed her shoulder again. "I know you're awake. Where is it?"

He lifted her head with a hand in her hair and screamed into her face.

"WHERE IS IT?"

Being manhandled sent a stab of pain through her injured cheek, but she kept her eyes squeezed shut.