|
Post by Drake Penfallon on Nov 13, 2009 17:43:42 GMT -5
The music filled the large car, bouncing of the windows and reverberating through the bodywork to the point where, if you lay your forehead against the cool glass of the window, you could feel the vibrations. Drake was driving home from the beach and the dying sun cast its last fingers of light through the windows, stroking Cavaliers fur as he sat in the passenger seat, his head sticking out of the window. He looked pretty happy for a dog soaked to the bone in salt water and covered in sand, but then sitting with your head sticking out of the window of a moving vehicle is pretty much ecstasy for the canine species.
Drake had been surfing, the evidence of which was tied to the roof of his jeep – that and his skin smelt faintly of the pineapple surf wax he had used on his board. His long, sender fingers tapped along with the music as he turned into the gated estate where he lived. Even Cavalier recognized that they were nearly home and started thumping his tail on the towel Drake had laid on the seat. A few moments later he pulled onto the long Driveway and parked up by the back gate. Switching of the engine the music cut out, and considering the noise of the moment before, it seemed pretty quiet now. They must be out. where Drakes thoughts as he opened the passenger door and followed his dog into the back garden, grabbing the hose on his way. With a single command Cavalier was sat, waiting to be hose down and bathed – though as this happened he was far from behaved.
Once covered in shampoo he went for a lap around the garden before slinking back to his previous position after Drake called him to heel. “Good boy” he praised as the Border collie waited patiently as the suds were washed from his skin, snapping occasionally at the water jet. “There, go dry yourself or whatever.” With the release, cavalier wasted no time in soaking Drakes shirt through, and doing more frenzied laps around the garden. Shaking his head, Drake peeled the wet shirt over his head, tossed it in the hamper and headed towards the kitchen.
|
|
|
Post by Morgan Flint on Nov 13, 2009 18:00:31 GMT -5
Morgan had thought she was home alone. Her Mother and Step-Father were going out for the evening and Marcus was up to something. She didn’t know what but either way; none of them had invited her to go along. That was fine. She had packages to put together for her newspaper staff explaining how things would be done this year. With being alone, Morgan had slipped off her posh day clothes and thrown on an old shirt that had been her Dad’s and a pair of tiny, pajama pants. With her tube socks rocked up to her knees, she looked almost like she was going to out as a slutty baseball player. Not that she cared what anyone thought of her.
With her ipod on, she danced through the empty dining room. This was the fun, carefree Morgan no one ever saw because she only came out when even she wasn’t paying attention. She hopped over the chipped piece of tile, never stepping on cracks, and came into the kitchen to find it too empty. Leaning on the counter, she pulled a strawberry from the foot dish. Sucking on the sweet fruit, she continued to dance around to Aerosmith.
School would start soon and gone would be her free time. She had to achieve and do the best she could. If she didn’t, she’d have to talk to her Mother and that meant her Stepfather would get involved. Morgan couldn’t look the man in the face without having some rash want to spit or scream so she avoided both of them as much as possible. Yes, succeeding was the only way they left her alone.
|
|
|
Post by Drake Penfallon on Nov 13, 2009 18:09:10 GMT -5
Out of his wet t-shirt, Drake kicked of his sandals at the door and padded his way barefoot through the carpeted halls of his mansion like house. The building itself was at least a hundred years old, though not that you would tell from the modern interior design. He personally thought it ruined the effect, that and the recently installed swimming pool in the other garden (yes they had three. One at the side, where Drake parked his car, one at the back, where the pool house and pool here, and one at the front, complete with manicured lawn and gardener who didn’t speak much English.)
As he passed the front door he dropped his car keys in the little dish Sophie kept there for that very reason, and ran his hand through his sandy blonde hair, yawning as he crossed from warm carpet to cool tiles of the family’s large kitchen. He went straight the fridge,, like often teenage boys do and pulled out a carton of orange juice. Turning, he kicked the fridge door shut and grabbed a glass, only to then to notice his sister on the opposite side of the room, dancing around in gym socks and pyjama bottoms. Nice.
Shaking his head and laughing softly to himself, Drake sat down and poured himself a glass of orange, downing it in one and pouring himself another. As he grabbed himself a strawberry from the bowl he heard the soft click of paws. His hand automatically fell down as Cavalier stuck his head in his cupped palm, wanting his ears to be stroked. Drake obliged, eating his strawberry and flicking through the day’s mail. He didn’t say anything to Morgan – there was no point. With her headphones in, it was not like she could hear him.
|
|
|
Post by Morgan Flint on Nov 13, 2009 18:22:41 GMT -5
Tossing her pony tail, she turned… And froze. Drake was suddenly there with his mutt. Pulling out an ear phone, “You’re such a creep.” She growled and crossed her arms over her chest. Turning the music off, she crossed the kitchen. “How long you been standing there, starring?” Morgan, needing something to do, pulled her hair out of the elastic and slid it around her wrist. Nervous, she began to snap it against the skin. It distracted her from the anxiety that bubbled in her chest. This was the beginning of a panic attack and she knew it—She didn’t even know if Drake knew about her little issue nor if he cared. They weren’t really close. Okay, that was a joke, they weren’t close. He stayed on his side of the house and she stayed in her room.
Trying to be cool and calm, she tried to pour a glass of juice from the same carton but her hands dropped it. “God dammit!” She cursed, grabbing a towel to start cleaning up. The bright orange of the drink stained the white of the old jersey. When she saw it, it was just as if it was blood. “Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.” She pulled the top off, throwing it in the sink. She had to clean it before the stain set. She couldn’t have been so stupid to wreck her dad’s shirt. The cool air made her hair stand up as she was now only clad in a lacy bra and those shorts.
|
|
|
Post by Drake Penfallon on Nov 13, 2009 18:37:32 GMT -5
Drake had to arch his eyebrows when she started to accuse him of what? Spying on her? He had gotten some juice and was flicking through the mail; he’d been ignoring her little dance-athon, and was instead focusing on his acceptance letter. “Correction one, I’m sat down, and therefore cannot be standing. Correction two, I’m looking through today’s mail, I left before it came.” He waved the letters and envelopes around to prove his point, and let his eyes fall back to the paper he was reading for the fourth time.
The pool of orange caught him off guard as he yanked the paper away and jumped up from the stool. “Jesus!” he cursed (and that was about as bad as Drake swore) “Watch it Morgan!” he put the papers to one side, and was a little surprised as the girl he had lived with for the last god knows how many years started to freak out. “Whoa, calm down!” He tried as she ran about - he was pretty sure if she had been a chicken, she would have been flapping by then. When she pulled of her shirt however, it was the last straw for Drake. Coming up behind her he took the shirt from her hands, put it on the kitchen counter and sucked beneath the marble top for the stain remover. Bottle in hands he sprayed the shirt and ran it under the luke-warm tap; the orange juice just ran away, leaving nothing but a damp patch.
“See” he turned round and offered her shirt back, making sure to only look above her neck. “crisis averted.”
|
|
|
Post by Morgan Flint on Nov 13, 2009 18:51:22 GMT -5
“Is it okay?” She asked. Perhaps for the first time in all the years he’d know her, Morgan addressed her without contempt in her voice. “Drake, is it?” She peered over his shoulder and then saw that it was. With a sigh, she held the shirt to her body, clutching it to her chest the drips of the excess water ran down her body and caught in the fabric of her shorts. “Thanks.” She bit her lip, unsure how to proceed now that she’d yelled, stripped and now had been kind to her stepbrother. “It- its just that it’s my Dad’s and I don’t know what I’d do…”
She stepped back away from him and concentrated on picking up the scattered mail, refolding it all and piling in on the counter. The envelopes and paper all had ninety degreed angles. It was part of her routine that made her feel better. Pulling the elastic off her wrist, she tied her hair back up. There was the beginnings of an ugly bruise against the skin of her wrist. With a sigh, she went back to the sink and ran it under the cool water. “Do you know where everyone is?” Morgan was going to attempt to be civil as he’d helped her. “I thought I was home alone- That’s what they said… Guess they didn’t bank on you being back so early.”
|
|
|
Post by Drake Penfallon on Nov 14, 2009 15:25:51 GMT -5
Drake waved off her thanks with a hand and turned back to the spilt orange on the counter. Cavalier was making the most of it and licking the puddle from the floor as it dripped from the counter and onto the polished white tiles. “Don’t worry about it” he said as he started mopping up the rest of the orange with a rag, much to the border collies disappointment. “Really, no big deal. I know what you mean” the only thing he had of his mothers was an old locket he kept in his drawer – if anything happened to that he didn’t know what he would do. It wasn’t like there had been lots of pictures taken when she had been alive; his mother had been camera shy at the best of times. The few candid shots he did have were in a scrapbook Sophie had made him when he was three, and that was currently in a box under his bed, tucked away safe.
“Sophie said something about going out for the day, but I don’t know. I was on my way out anyway, so i didn’t really catch it. To be honest I thought you would have been them. Aren’t you and Marcus normally attached at the hip?” he was having a little dig, making a joke to lighten the situation. He shrugged at her comment about him being home, and tossed the rag into the washer. “it’s getting dark, and Jennifer is coming round.”
|
|
|
Post by Morgan Flint on Nov 14, 2009 15:37:40 GMT -5
Jennifer the wonderful. Great. Morgan pulled back, putting her normal distance between them. “We have to be, don’t we? After all, we don’t have anyone else.” It was the way she saw it. Drake was part of her stepfamily and no matter what kind of guy he was, she couldn’t forgive his Father for wrecking her family. “I guess I’ll let you be alone with your cheerleader. Wouldn’t want to get in your way and ruin your night of yelling out letters- Give me a B- Give me a Y, give me an E!” She waved at him with a little wink, chuckling.
When he didn’t react, she gave him a sigh. “Look, thanks for helping me out with the shirt. I made something for myself for dinner- You want something?” It’s the way it worked- You give some to get some. Drake had done her a favor and now, she’d try being nicer in return.
|
|
|
Post by Drake Penfallon on Nov 14, 2009 15:45:43 GMT -5
Too right he didn’t react. As if he didn’t hear those jokes enough? Dating the ditzy cheerleader, the same old same old high school cliché, captain of the football team the head cheerleader? Believe me, he had heard every joke in the book, and a couple that where yet to be added. What people didn’t get however, was the fact he loved this girl, that he saw past the ditzy cheerleader to the sweet natured girl who wouldn’t hurt a fly.
“Na thanks” he smiled, briefly, at her offer of dinner. “As much as I would like to risk your cooking; i ordered pizza before i left the beach-“his phone chose that moment to buzz. Removing the slim metallic device from the pocket of his board shorts he flipped it open. After a moment of conversation he flipped it back down and tossed it onto the counter. “Hope you’re hungry boy” he said, glancing down at cavalier who was curled around his stool. “We have two pizza’s to eat after all.” He glanced up. “unless you like pepperoni Morgan?”
|
|
|
Post by Morgan Flint on Nov 14, 2009 15:50:16 GMT -5
"You're offering me food?" She paused, "Alright, if you don't think you'll start on fire from being in my presence too long. After all, step brother, I know you think I'm the devil in disguise." Morgan hopped back up to sit on the counter. Holding her wrist in her other hand, she massaged over the welt of skin where the elastic had done the most damage. It’s not like she meant to do things like that… she couldn’t help herself. It was a bit of a compulsion when the roaring in her head got too loud. No one talked about it, least of all her, because in this house ‘Don’t ask; Don’t tell’ was the best rule of thumb. “How was the surf?” As a writer, she was mildly observant after all and she could smell the sweet scent of pineapple in the air, mixing with his Abacrombie or Holister (some cheesy brand name) cologne.
|
|
|
Post by Drake Penfallon on Nov 14, 2009 16:00:54 GMT -5
Ah see, that was where she had it wrong. Drake didn’t wear cologne most of the time, just his good old mildly scented shower gel. He just smelt that way. Drake stood up and went to the cupboard, cavalier following at his heels – once it had been training that caused the loveable mutt to do this, now however it was just the fact that Cavalier liked to be around Drake. Go ahead, ask him, he’ll tell you.
Opening the door, Drake rooted around for a minute as he answered her questions. “Devil incarnate? Not so much. Perhaps just his neighbourly helper – part time assistant. Your brother however...” Drake shook his head and emerged from the oak store with some crème and a bandage. It took only a few seconds to cross the tiles after that, a few seconds before he was stood back in front of her, holding out his hand to take her wrist. In this family they may not ask, but at the same time Drake had been raised by Sophie, who may not ask but did something about it instead.
|
|
|
Post by Morgan Flint on Nov 14, 2009 16:06:50 GMT -5
“You know, I should put that in my resume- Satan’s little helper. Though, I’m sure I’ve earned that reputation before even setting foot on school grounds. I’m sure the strings pulled to get me a position as school paper editor didn’t help any.” She smirked perhaps a little too proudly at the idea. “And don’t talk about Marcus or our little truce will be over.” When he held out his hand, asking for her wrist, she shied away from his touch. It must have been confusing for him- the way she went from Bitch almighty to wounded child. Trust me, it’s just a part of her charm. The truth was scattered over her body and, the ways she sat with her legs crossed, you could see the scars up her thighs. Only no one had been there with a soft touch and ointment then. Taking a deep breath to fortify herself, she placed her slender hand in his. Her bottom lip slotted between her teeth as if he was about to perform surgery and not just put a plaster on her wrist.
|
|
|
Post by Drake Penfallon on Nov 14, 2009 16:23:19 GMT -5
Drake chuckled. “Ye, I’m sure they would be falling all over the place to sign you up.” Seriously though, on another note, some people may just take that seriously, the sell my soul type. Still, perhaps not a great train of thought to follow. Drake didn’t react to her flinching away – he didn’t flinch himself, he didn’t look down or away and he certainly didn’t say anything about it. He just waited, and took in the scars on her legs. He had seen them before, when they had been younger, but more recently she kept them covered up, and like forever in this family, he didn’t say anything about it. Everybody had their secrets, and he had no right to pry into other peoples. His own scar twinged, as if in sympathy as he took her hand gently in his own. It was surprising, the contrast between their hands, thought not a contrast he was un -use to. His hands were rough from manual labour, sea salt, playing football, where her own were soft. He rubbed the cream into her bruised skin, his fingers soothing and light before he wrapped the bandage around her hand, tight, firm, and supportive, though he knew from practice of bandaging his won, not uncomfortable. “done” he announced, and let her have her hand back.
|
|
|
Post by Morgan Flint on Nov 14, 2009 16:38:22 GMT -5
Morgan nodded, “Thanks, Drake, my hero. You know, the girls are white, you’re all good and pure riding around on that white steed of yours.” It was his nickname around school: Prince Charming. Every girl with a pulse seemed to love him and she normally scorned at their pathetic attempts to get Drake to even acknowledge their presence- Even though he was blind to every girl who wasn’t Cheerleader Barbie. She laughed, though it sounded a little more like a purr. “So when’s the pizza coming? I’m starved. I didn’t think it would be this much work putting together my junkets for the Lancer but God, last years staff was so disorganized. And I think some of them may have been illiterate- I had to redo the filing system from scratch. DO you know how much work that takes?” It was weird, talking to Drake but since Marcus had disappeared, she supposed she could use him as a sounding board.
|
|
|
Post by Drake Penfallon on Nov 14, 2009 16:47:26 GMT -5
“Girls, you don’t like us to know, but you all think with your stomach’s, and then blame it on stress.” He teased and moved away from the counter so that she could get down, so that the momentary closeness between them would not become strange, awkward. He was always aware of that around other girls, of being too close, of giving the wrong impression. He wasn’t oblivious to their advances, he chose to ignore them.
“It should be here soon madam, in fact” He glanced at the clock “any minute now.” He headed towards the living room, not one for wanting to stay in the kitchen for long periods of times, he usually hung out in the room his had had ‘given’ him a few Christmases ago, a small annex built onto the side of the house. It had its own front door, so it worked. “So tell me more about the lancer. The stories were all about prom, and who was dating who last year. Seriously, you couldn’t be much worse than the old editor.”
|
|