Pebbles could tell that her boyfriend, Trall Gomez was really starting to become irked at her ignorance.
PEBBLES: I'm not sure I see it.
She was trying to. Really, she was.
TRALL: Look there...that bit of red.
Pebbles strained her neck forward and squinted her eyes to appear that she was really, really analyzing the hue.
TRALL: Relax. It's not a Magic Eye.
Pebbles dropped the facade.
TRALL: Right there. That itty bitty bit of red surrounded by that immense sea of blue symbolizes the rage of American society, being pent up by an ever increasing pharmaceutical industry that is slowly sedating our people out of existence.
Trall stopped for a moment to let that knowledge bomb sink in. Pebbles spoke up.
PEBBLES: ...Go on...
Go on he did.
TRALL: If you look closely, you'll see a thin black circle shadow-y thing, completely engulfing the red.
PEBBLES: Oh yeah. I think I see it.
TRALL: That's the decay that happens. When everyone just wants to medicate everyone for anything. We keep all the bad shit bottled up for so long...there's a cost there.
Pebbles was his best patron. She pulled out her distant sounding, ponder-y voice.
PEBBLES: It eats away. From the inside out.
Trall smiled, leaned in, and kissed Pebbles on the forehead.
TRALL: Exactly. That's why I fucking love you.
Pebbles smiled warmly.
PEBBLES: Aw, I love you too, darling. Now, tell me, what the hell is that?
Pebbles pointed to the exhibit to the right.
PEBBLES: It looks like a big, fat...
TRALL: That's Mr. Amnesias setup from New York. 5th and Broadway I think is where they set it up.
PEBBLES: That was in public? That's absurd.
TRALL: Def. Not in the best taste. Especially after 9/11.
PEBBLES: Oh yes...I think I remember the brew ha ha surrounding that.
TRALL: It does say something about our yet-to-be-extinct modesty, doesn't it?
PEBBLES: I bet the parents on that block loved that.
TRALL: Yeah...I'm pretty sure I read that there was a petition going around to bring Mr. Amnesia up on obscenity charges.
Trall was correct. That petition was met with a counter petition by the artsy fartsy community to keep it up...literally speaking. In the end, the almighty dollar won out, and the whole production was moved to the very Street Art exhibition in Washington, DC that Pebbles and Trall were attending.
TRALL: It is strangely hypnotizing though.
Trall tilted his head to the side and caressed his chin with his fingers, eyes fixated on the exhibit, as Pebbles turned in his direction and cocked an eyebrow. Slowly, she could feel her neck reverting back to its original orientation...maybe her eyes were driving, who knows? Moral of the story - Pebbles was unwittingly or not, soaking up another eyeful of a large, dark, extremely lifelike wood carving.
Pebbles could feel her palms start to tingle and her heart beat quicken. An intense surge of blood hit her square in the face. She could feel the thinest layer of perspiration forming on her upper lip. As much as she wanted to divert her attention, she just could not turn away. Shockingly, Neither could Trall. They probably looked like some freaks. Pebbles didn't care. They were freaks.
At that very moment, another other urge struck Pebbles' fancy. That urge usually provided a convenient counterweight to that primal, former urge, and boy did she ever need it. Ever since she had started seeing Trall regularly, Pebbles had been frustrated. Yes, ultra frustrated...physically. One would think that Pebbles would have become sexually frustrated much earlier than the four months since she started seeing him; One would think, perhaps around the time she found out she had contracted HIV. This was not the case for Ms. Hawkins. After her diagnosis, she had never felt as liberated as she did when she knew she had nothing else to fear; She was on a weekend pass from death row. In her mind, she was living on borrowed time. It was as if she had been mortally wounded right there in the doctors office and every waking moment since has just been one shovel of mud deeper to her grave; Everything was ultimately an effort in futility. For better or for worse, Pebbles initially embraced her imminent doom with the vigor of a meticulously sheltered college freshman. Mother and father were no longer around and Pebbles did play. She played a lot. A lot, a lot. Her nights from shortly after the news up to about nine months ago had been spent in tequila and bodily fluid soaked linens. It wasn't always a pretty sight, or smell, but Pebbles had no problems getting a different gentleman caller to endure it any night she was able to drag herself out of bed from the previous evenings escapades. The little humor she had left in life was the thought of how many boys were willing to tip toe through a mine field of bowls of curdled milk and sugar cereal remnants just in order to get laid. One might also ask how Pebbles was able to get so much action, what, with being mortally wounded and all. Surely, all these suiters were not so hard up as to overlook the very real chance they could contract a disease that there was no known cure for at the time. The answer is simple. She had a "don't ask, don't tell" policy.
That devil-may-care lifestyle Pebbles had adopted was not rent free. She had a landlord in the devil driving her decisions and causing her to blatantly disregard the sanctity of human life. She was a walking time bomb in lipstick, ready to explode on the lap of the next sucker stupid enough to not pack protection. The number of young, and old, men that Pebbles had infected over the years is extremely tough to estimate. Maybe a third of New York, a half of New Jersey? That may be hyperbole, but moral of the story...it was a lot. She didn't care. Her life was over. Why should she care about anothers? Misery absolutely does love company.
Pebbles would not find the answer to that question until she fell into her anonymous support group during the autumn of 2002. After a night of particularly grotesque debauchery, Pebbles had decided enough was enough and sought professional help in sorting out her sexual deviance. She wound up running to her local church in tears, looking for a physical being to grant her forgiveness. Unfortunately, forgiveness was not something that could be granted by flesh, but was something that would come when she was ready to repent. In the mean time, the good Priest did refer her to the much needed support group. He assured her that the group was effective, and very discrete. Some of his good friends had even sought help there. A long story short - the positive company helped Pebbles get her grasp on her humanity, and realize the truth in what her doctor had told her two years prior; HIV was not a death sentence. She wouldn't be able to just shove off her pain and misery to anyone unlucky enough to fall into her web. She had a whole life ahead of her, and the thought of all the damage she could have potentially caused would eat her alive without this intervention. She also met Trall there, which was a blessing. Sweet, sweet Trall. He was her savior.
Pebbles reached into her purse to make sure she had it with her. She then focused her attention on a still entranced weirdo companion.
PEBBLES: I'm going to find a quiet place and take a puff. You want in?
Trall barely broke his gaze.
TRALL: No. You know that makes me get the itis. I'm trying to see a couple more pieces before we end up spending sixty bucks at Jumbo Slice and falling asleep on the metro. You go ahead. Just be careful.
Pebbles put her hand on his shoulder and rubbed down his back with a smile as she walked away to find the gallery's best kept secret. She couldn't help but feel like the luckiest girl in the world to have every last bit of Trall's encouragement and support.
After approximately thirteen minutes of wandering around the various floors of the mammoth National Art Gallery, Pebbles ultimately found the secluded spot she was looking for. Only three flights up from the main exhibit, she found an unoccupied balcony through a very modest set of French doors. It was perfect.
Pebbles carefully fished around in her purse for the orange cylinder containing her self prescribed medication. She lit the open end and put the cylinder of paper to her lips. Deep inhale. Hold it. She exhaled with a sound that could only be described as "quenched". The chilly spring air had mixed with the feeling of sedation ever so nicely. She didn't have much time to enjoy the relaxed feeling that was sweeping over her body, as an unfamiliar voice in the distance froze her attention. She held her breath and listened intently. The unfamiliar voice was coming closer.
Before Pebbles could form her next thought, she instinctively dropped the dope off of the side of the building and swiftly moved behind a decretive pillar to avoid detection. She hoped this unfamiliar voice was just passing by and wouldn't be making a stop out on the balcony for any length of time. Or notice that the previously closed modest French doors were now wide open. No dice. The voice was now on the balcony with her. One voice to be exact. One voice talking to itself. It sounded like whomever it was, was hunkering down for the long haul.
Locke. Locke. Where did Pebbles know that name from?
STRANGER: They think King would set the right image. That he's more palatable to the international community. I just don't understand where Babington is coming from. He's already steam rolled the UN, and now he's trying to appease them? Yes sir, I'll find out his angle.
Babington she knew. At least she thought he was referring to Harper Babington, President of the United States of America. His crib was right down the road.
STRANGER: Correct, ...that the States is in this for the humanitarian reasons and rebuilding for the Iraqis or democracy, if you will, is primary directive. He's not just an image, sir. King would be a disaster for us. There wouldn't be any sweetheart deals there. Unreliable banking system. Let's hope it's just be going around for the publicity. Locke didn't seem confident he was final. The Generals still have to weigh in.
It very well could have been the marijuana's effect on her brain, or the fact that Pebbles wasn't as up to date on her world affairs as she would like, or even the fact she could only hear one end of this conversation, either way, she was lost.
STRANGER: No, I don't think he's...'malleable' as you say. Did you see him and Thom Paul on that conspiracy theory show or whatever that was, talking about the team? They both want to abolish the whole thing with a passion. He thinks he's a patriot. No, I don't think we can get him on the payroll; some people just can't be bought. It's a damn shame.
Pebbles loved conspiracy shows like that. Area 909, the Second Shooter, Lizard People. She had to restrain herself from giving away her covert position just in order to find out what time and channel.
STRANGER: I spoke with Cecil to get his take. No, no...he's still chipping away at Reykjavik. He says he's teeing them up real nice for me. His take is we float Phillip Dreamer. Dreamer is already familiar with the team, and he came up huge with cranking out all those policy papers and getting Ross in our column for deregulation. No real baggage with him. He's been low key for a while now and I understand he's itching to get out of retirement. With Dreamer, we know what the first order of business would be over there. He loves blood in the water.
By this time, Pebbles had completely lost interest in the conversation. She just wanted to get back inside. She should have just tossed the joint and feigned as if she was lost. At this point, she was just an extremely awkward eavesdropper of the driest gossip.
STRANGER: We should run it through Tripp. Have him get Harper to rubber stamp it. Tripp's more passionate about the sell when he can make Harper think it's his idea. He knows Dreamer from the old days too. The thing is, we may have to get a couple of boys in the House to see what they can do about getting the younger Babington on to some committees. That'll take a few dollars. The kid's an asshole, and they all know it. Each generation gets worse with that family.
Pebbles couldn't help but think about how much this guy sounded like her father.
STRANGER: I really liked Avery too. Thought he was all in. Tragedy. Oh yeah, Locke mentioned that Harper is getting anxious and wants someone to take him to Basel soon. I know. If you give a mouse a cookie. Maybe I can dangle that over him too. When's the next Jamboree we can bring him to? Heh, yes, if we can get him and the Chancellor there and kill two birds with one stone...thank you, sir. I try my hardest for you all.
Basel must've been an ultra ritzy club if The President of the United States wasn't able to get in without an invite, Pebbles thought.
STRANGER: One more thing. About Locke. She's been going off script lately. Talking to the independent press about Iraq. Does she know something that I don't? Understood. I'll keep an eye on her.
The stranger let out a long sigh as he hung up his cell phone. Not three seconds had elapsed since disconnecting the previous call, when his ring tone sounded again.
STRANGER: Ugh. No more tonight.
The stranger apparently pressed ignore and moved towards the edge of the balcony. He placed his palms on the railing and extended his arms with a hunch in his back. Pebbles thought about stealing a look from around the corner of her hiding pillar to assess how threatening the stranger was. He sounded kind of intimating.
STRANGER: You know, I plan to be out here for a while. You should probably come out from there.
Pebbles froze and clenched her jaw. She also closed her eyes under the playground assumption that "if I can't see him, he can't see me". A cracking sound came from the stranger. It could have been his knuckles. Or maybe he was doing trunk rotators. Whichever was less threatening, Pebbles hoped.
STRANGER: Don't make me ask again. I don't want to have to come over there. I'm packing heat.
Pebbles didn't know what to do. She stayed put.
STRANGER: Don't you listen? I said, come out of there.
The stranger swept around the corner, dukes up. Just as he was about to launch a round house kick, he made out the non threatening frame of Pebbles Hawkins in the darkness. The stranger brought his danger foot down to the ground and caged his pythons.
STRANGER: Well, pardon me ma'am.
The stranger reached his hand out to help Pebbles up. She obliged.
STRANGER: So you've been there quite a while.
PEBBLES: Little bit, yeah. Don't worry. I was only, like, half listening.
The stranger chuckled. Pebbles wiped the back of her dress off with her hands.
STRANGER: I'm Clayton.
PEBBLES: Clayton what?
STRANGER: Clayton Does-It-Matter?
Pebbles was kind of taken aback by such brashness. She wondered what ever happened to decency.
PEBBLES: I suppose it doesn't. Pleasure to meet you. I'm Pebbles.
CLAYTON: Likewise.
Pebbles moved from out of her hiding spot to have a lean on the edge of the balcony. There always seemed to be a perpetual breeze at that height. She could hear the uneasy roar of the protestors carried from a distance.
CLAYTON: So, am I the only one that smells that?
PEBBLES: No! Smells what?
CLAYTON: You know, some pot.
Pebbles decided to play dumb. She really didn't know this guys story. She gave an exaggerated sniff to the air to humor him.
PEBBLES: Maybe it's coming over from the protests. All those vets are probably hooked on the stuff.
CLAYTON: Could be. I might have to go over there and ask those guys for a light.
Pebbles looked to Clayton's hands as he produced an extravagantly large marjiuana cigarette from the breast pocket of his expensive sports jacket. Her eyes grew so wide that they could have sparked it with just that gaze. She had just been beating herself up for throwing her perfectly good joint off of the edge of the balcony, just because this harmless stranger had snuck up on her. She no longer cared about his story. He was now good people in her book.
PEBBLES: I think I can save you a walk.
She pulled out her lighter and handed it over. Clayton grinned.
CLAYTON: Oh, you partake?
PEBBLES: I've dabbled. Spark her up and find out.
CLAYTON: So what brings you here?
He passed it to Pebbles who was eager to take it.
PEBBLES: The street art exhibit. You?
CLAYTON: My stupid w...company. My company is a sponsor of this whole artsy thing. Do you know we get a tax write off for putting this thing on?
PEBBLES: Instead of paying taxes to help the community, they allow you to put on this party of gain more connections and close more deals?
CLAYTON: Bingo.
PEBBLES: Why aren't you down there hobnobbing right now?
CLAYTON: Please. There's no one important down there. The deals I make don't happen here. I'm just on he board of directors of this foundation. I'm not even quite sure what they do.
Pebbles smirked and handed it back to Clayton.
CLAYTON: I saw you down there. You were...you are...you look stunning.
Pebbles began to blush.
PEBBLES: That's very kind of you to say. Thank you. You look very handsome this evening as well.
She searched his face for signs of reciprocated blush.
CLAYTON: Was that your husband you were with?
PEBBLES: No.
CLAYTON: Fiance?
PEBBLES: Nope.
CLAYTON: Boyfriend?
Pebbles pondered for a moment.
PEBBLES: I think you can call it that. Yeah, that's appropriate.
Clayton seized on her hesitance.
CLAYTON: You don't seem so sure there.
Her inhibitions were down. Smoking always did that to her. So did drinking.
PEBBLES: We have an emotional connection. It's just...
CLAYTON: It's just he's not throwing the heat in bed?
How blunt.
PEBBLES: He's not throwing anything in bed. We don't bed. There is no bed.
CLAYTON: You call this guy your boyfriend, but he's not taking care of business?
PEBBLES: He fulfills a lot of needs. We just don't sleep together. He's asexual.
Clayton got the impression she wanted him to finish her thought. He couldn't fathom.
CLAYTON: A sexual what?
Pebbles returned the chuckled.
PEBBLES: Asexual. One word. As in, he isn't interested in the physical aspect of the relationship.
Clayton was at a loss.
CLAYTON: What other aspect is there?
Pebbles hit him in the arm with the back of her hand.
CLAYTON: I'm kidding. But that is one of the best parts. That's tough.
PEBBLES: But he's so, so romantic. He makes me feel so warm and special in other ways. And he's good at making out. Best I've ever had.
CLAYTON: Whatever works for you all. Look at you though. It just seems like a waste to squander a package like that.
Pebbles didn't know whether to slap him or kiss him for a comment like that. She did go to great lengths to get dolled up that evening. Clayton must have realized he had overstepped his bounds, judging by his abrupt topic change.
CLAYTON: Do you hear all of those people out there?
PEBBLES: I do. They sure sound angry.
CLAYTON: They should be. They were dropped off in the middle of nowhere to fight for issues they could barely comprehend. They should be pissed.
PEBBLES: Because they're fighting a war that can't be won?
CLAYTON: It has been won. You and I probably have a differing opinion on what winning is.
PEBBLES: I don't think a war is won just because our President lands a fighter jet on a carrier and waves a few banners.
CLAYTON: And neither do I. That stunt was pretty incredible, huh? That's Harper Babington for you.
PEBBLES: He's a real moron.
CLAYTON: He's not the sharpest tool in the shed, agreed. I can't believe Tripp would let him do that.
PEBBLES: The veep? Doesn't the President tell him what to do?
CLAYTON: Sometimes.
Clayton chastised himself for letting the drug cloud his judgement.
PEBBLES: But not this time?
CLAYTON: What do I know? I'm just some old fart sitting on the board of some non-profit. I just thought I could impress some co-ed with some SMNCB talking points. I don't really know shit about them.
Pebbles was flattered he thought she was still in school. She immensely enjoyed seeing this man move his chiseled jaw line. What poured out of his mouth was irrelevant.
PEBBLES: So what does SMNCB say this war is really about? Is it just for the oil or did Iraq really have nuclear weapons?
Clayton paused for a few seconds as he attempted to condense a very complicated issue into just a few easily digestible words, without giving too much of the real story away.
CLAYTON: That's tough. To put it into such few words.
PEBBLES: Fair enough. If you can't do it, you can't do it.
Clayton viewed her nonchalance as a challenge.
CLAYTON: Megalomania.
Pebbles had an inkling that was the case. She understood those in power always wanted more. Clayton took the condescending liberty to elaborate.
CLAYTON: For Harper, it's about redemption. But he's small potatoes. For the rest of them, it's about oil and power and money, sure, but they have all those things already. It's more about that remaining sliver that they don't have. They crave that piece. It's about taking that sliver from the Iraqis, the Germans, the Icelandic, everyone. You yourself. They don't know you on a personal level, but they whatever you've got.
Pebbles was surprised by his candor. She became quite curious.
PEBBLES: They? Do you know who they are?
Clayton wanted more than anything to impress this beautiful redhead he had on the line. Her emerald green eyes, her soft freckles along the bridge of her nose. Everything was perfect. He prudently bit his tongue.
CLAYTON: Do you?
Two could play at that game.
PEBBLES: Maybe I do. You wouldn't know them.
Clayton knew that wasn't the case. He knew most of the people on the inside, and she wasn't one of them. Clayton himself was working to get to the core of that rotten onion, or at least a few layers deeper. A few more years. A few more jobs and he could possibly get a seat at the big boys table.
CLAYTON: Have you ever had a shotgun?
Pebbles was definitely feeling the effects of the THC and had already let her mind start to wander. She let herself play an encore of dumb.
PEBBLES: Like, for shooting your friend in the face while duck hunting?
Clayton genuinely giggled. He probably hadn't giggled since he was nine or so. He held the soon-to-be roach up between his fingers.
CLAYTON: Like this.
Clayton then took a large hit of the remaining refer cigarette and turned the thing around so the cherry end was a few inches from his lips.
CLAYTON: Now cup your hands over your mouth and inhale as deep as you can, and I'm going to blow your lungs out.
Pebbles complied as Clayton inserted the lit side of the joint into his mouth, cupping his own hands around it and connecting his tunnel to hers. One mighty exhale from Clayton, paired with an equally mighty inhale from Pebbles had her knees about to buckle. Clayton removed the shotgun from his mouth and let his bare lips linger close to Pebbles as he exhaled slowly. Her eyes were closed and the sweetest grin had, along with a billow of smoke, crept over her face. She looked so relaxed. She needed to relax.
PEBBLES: That was amazing. I've never had one before. I thank you, good sir.
Clayton flicked the now minuscule portion of joint off the balcony.
CLAYTON: What do you say you make up some story to your boyfriend, and we get out of here and head to my place?
Pebbles was caught off guard by the proposition, and immediately chastised herself for letting that guard down.
PEBBLES: Well, gee, that's a very sweet offer and all, but I don't think I could.
He could appreciate her snark.
CLAYTON: Can't blame a guy for swinging for the fences.
It's true. She couldn't.
CLAYTON: I'll be right here if you change your mind.
An open invitation? Pebbles was intrigued.
PEBBLES: So now that this is adequately awkward, I'm going to head inside. Sorry to smoke and bounce.
Clayton brushed her away with a simple hand motion. Not even a "good bye", "so long", or "nice to meet you". How pompous. Pebbles could feel the rage inside her bubbling up. What a prick. She made it clear she wasn't a fan of his attitude with her extra heavy exit steps.
Pebbles found her way back to the main exhibit to find Trall straight doubled over in laughter, with his hand on the shoulder of some rather hipster looking gentleman. Pebbles approached with caution.
PEBBLES: Well, it looks like you've made a new friend. How'd you pry this guy away from the dick sculpture?
Pebbles elbowed the second stranger of the evening in jest. He took it well.
TRALL: Oh, darling. This is Lowder. We were roommates as University. I haven't seen him since...when was it Lowder?
LOWDER: Oh, I'd say around 1995. The Senators had just drafted Chuckie Chickster.
TRALL: I'll have to take your word for it. I barely remember the 90's.
LOWDER: I'll bet. You had some wild times then. Wild times. You ever tell your lady about them?
Pebbles had heard the stories along with the rest of group therapy. She could have probably stood to hear a couple a few more times for Trall's sake, but she couldn't stop her mind from going back to the proposal to go home with the silver fox. Maybe he wouldn't care about her HIV. Maybe he would understand the risks are small.
TRALL: ....And then, what I thought was yogurt, was actually a tub full of...
Pebbles cringed. She hated that particular story. She had to interject to save a migraine.
PEBBLES: I actually just came up to tell you I'm not feeling too well, and my friend Traci...you've met her before, is right around the corner. She's going to give me a lift home.
A look of concern overtook Trall's face.
TRALL: Poor baby. Do you want me to go with you?
She absolutely didn't. She put on her compassionate voice.
PEBBLES: Aw, no baby. I want you to have a good time. It's still so early. Lowder, make him stay, would you?
Lowder turned to Trall and tilted his head sideways.
LOWDER: Do it for me. I can give you a ride, Tral-la-la-la-la.
TRALL: Ok, as a favor to you both.
Well, that wasn't difficult. Pebbles kissed Trall on the cheek and found her way back to the elevator she originally snuck off in. As she stepped off the elevator three flights up, she broke into a speedy power walk before she had to consciously tell herself to chill out. She had to play it cool. She had to make it look like she wasn't crawling back.
As Pebbles was dialing down the enthusiasm, she came within earshot of one familiar voice, in heated conversation with the sound of one not so familiar, much higher pitched voice. The dread of falling for the weak game of some pick up artist overcame her gut. Pebbles crept closer in her familiar creep mode for a closer listen. It was definitely Clayton and some woman. Another woman.
CLAYTON: I really told you not to come here tonight. I told you I was working.
OTHER WOMAN: I just wanted a couple minutes with you, that's all. You've been working for five days straight now. What am I supposed to think?
CLAYTON: You're supposed to think that those diamonds and furs aren't growing on trees. You want nice things, I've got to work. Case closed.
A short pause. Pebbles got ready to slink away if she heard footsteps making a hasty exit.
OTHER WOMAN: You'd think you'd make time for your wife.
CLAYTON: ...I do make time for you. If you want to go back to living in a trailer with your step dad, feel free.
OTHER WOMAN: Why do you have to talk like that? Why do you have to be so hateful?
CLAYTON: It's not hate. It's life. I work so hard just to keep you happy, and you don't even appreciate it.
OTHER WOMAN: Do I look happy? Do I look happy you spend every night away from home with your whores?
This other woman had not finished her sentence when the a loud smacking sound reverberated off of the marble of the balcony. Pebbles could almost feel the sting on her own cheek as she covered her mouth. The other woman began to bawl.
CLAYTON: See? This is what I can't deal with. You're stressing me out. You make me do that to you. You make me be a bad guy. Cut that out.
After a valiant attempt to cease her outburst to a low whimper, the bawling continued. A second smacking sound rang out.
CLAYTON: I swear to God...
Clayton's voice had lowered to a lower rumble, forcing Pebbles to lean in closer.
CLAYTON: You are going to take this napkin, clean yourself up, and get in a cab before that lip swells up and someone notices. Nod your head if you understand me.
Pebbles didn't have eyes on the couple, and couldn't confirm if she did.
CLAYTON: Next time, when I say don't come here, I mean just that. Don't come here. I will be home when I am not working. Until then, you stay there, and wait for me to come home.
The other woman let out one last agonizing whimper as she got to her feet. Pebbles could hear feet hitting the ground so she sunk back into the shadows. Sure enough, the other woman emerged from the French doors with her hands over her face and some pep in her step.
Maybe it was because Pebbles had heard so many stories of abuse in her support group. Maybe it was because this other woman had red hair too. Maybe it was because Pebbles had always learned it wasn't right for a man to hit a woman. Maybe it was just her time of the month. In any event, Pebbles immediately went from turned on by a suave older gentleman, to absolutely disgusted with such unredeemable, vile humanity. Unfortunately for Clayton, Pebbles was now feeling ultra zealous.
She mustered up the courage to storm through those french doors, out to the balcony she was now familiar with. There he was. Target acquired. Pebbles was making a bee line.
CLAYTON: What did I...
He turned around from the sound of footsteps approaching him.
CLAYTON: Oh, it's you, what a...
Pebbles didn't give him one chance to rationalize or defend his position. In her mind, she was the judge and jury. In her mind, she needed to execute. She planted a passionate kiss square on his lips. In reality, her unplanned flightpath was miscalculated enough to force them to bump front teeth, but Pebbles totally played it off. She ravished him, caressing his shoulders back and buttocks. He was definitely turned on and ready to go. He pushed her away for a second, probably to look her in the eyes and silently let her know he was the one driving this train. He took her by the hands and led her back inside the french doors and down the hallway to a more...climate controlled location.
Clayton lead her to a bathroom door. How classy. They entered the Men's room. The least he could have done was picked the Ladies room, Pebbles thought. They probably didn't have any sisters sitting on the board in this stodgy old place anyway. Once they entered, Clayton bent over to look under each stall to make sure they had sole occupation of that particular restroom. Pebbles thought this was a paranoid maneuver. Who would be there at that hour? She also wondered if it was good for someone that age to be bending that low. After confirming they were alone, Clayton opened the middle stall door and turned around to back into it, pulling Pebbles in for a kiss by the back of her neck. His grip was extraordinarily hard. Pebbles wasn't really into the rough stuff, and immediately had second thoughts about what she was getting herself into when he started biting her tongue and lips. She kept having to remind herself she wasn't doing this for Clayton...or herself; she was making herself a martyr. She had to suppress her apprehension and keep moving forward on her crusade. She wanted to be able to tell herself exactly who she was doing it for, but that seemed much harder than telling herself who it wasn't.
After a particularly stinging bite, Pebbles pushed Clayton with enough force to help him find a seat. He smirked and looked up at Pebbles with tired eyes as he began to undo his tie. She reached up to inspect her lip, and sure enough, the jerk had drawn blood. Perfect. She moved closer to her prey and straddled his lap, firmly planting an open mouth kiss on his. Clayton seemed to revel in the slight hint of blood that complimented the taste of her tongue.
Eventually, Pebbles dismounted and hiked her dress up just enough to gain access to what was beneath. She smiled at her conscious decision to sex it up a bit that night had played right into her impromptu plot. The fabric was so scarce; the fabric was so transparent, it's a wonder why she bothered to wear anything under there at all. If she had stuck with her first choice of undergarments, she knew Clayton would have been looking for an exit right about now. She intentionally took her time sliding her panties down her long legs, eventually reaching her feminine ankles. She reached out and placed her hand on Clayton's shoulder to stabilize herself while stepping each foot out of her vastly over priced investment. Clayton had added extra stability by firmly planting his large hands on first her hips, providing an additional upward pull on her satin dress. As soon as her lower body was introduced to the chilly bathroom air, he repositioned those busy hands to her exposed backside, pulling her stomach closer to his face as he began to kiss around her navel before taking an excursion south. She quickly developed goosebumps. Her anticipation turned Clayton on even more.
If one were a fly on that particular bathroom stall wall, one would assume that both parties merely put up a huge front, but in actuality were both quite unexperienced in these types of semi-public, risqué rendezvous. As dashing as Clayton, or seductive as Pebbles tried to come across, there were far too many bumped elbows and awkward apologies in the heat of the moment to call themselves practiced. Inexperience aside, Pebbles had him right where she wanted him...and he occasionally hit right where she needed him.
After Pebbles had grown passed the novelty of having sex again for the first time in over nine months, coupled with a banged up cheek from her face being repeatedly smashed into the stall door, much to her ire, the desire for Clayton to finish grew with each additional thrust. With each passing second, she hated him more and more. Under a charming façade was an aggressive, manipulative, womanizer who needed his comeuppance. In due time, with a low pitched groan, Pebbles could feel that he had climaxed as he backpedaled a few steps and slummed down to a seat on the commode. Pebbles turned her head over her shoulder just enough to catch a glimpse of this sweaty, suddenly much older looking sack of a man gasping for air with a stupid look on his face. She cringed at the notion that she had actually thought he was appealing less than an hour ago. The lighting, or lack there of, on the balcony had definitely been generous to Mr. Clayon Does-It-Matter.
With the deed completed, Pebbles picked up her few belongings and opened the stall door.
CLAYTON: And where do you think you're going? I wasn't finished with you; I'm just catching my breath. We're just getting warmed up. Get back over here.
Pebbles paused for a moment and turned back in his direction. The most disgusted scowl overtook her face. Or maybe she was just hocking the biggest wad of snot out of her nasal and throat that she could conjure. It was probably the later, because Pebbles then released said wad of snot out of her mouth, directly landing on Clayton's forehead. Pebbles only got to stick around for a fraction of a second to watch his face go from pleasure to rage, as her instincts kicked in an told her to book it. She must've exited his reach just in time, as she narrowly made it out of the bathroom door and to the elevator, while Clayton was laying face down on the bathroom floor, tripped up by his own downed trousers.
Pebbles' adrenaline had kicked in and her heart was pounding as she got to the lobby and in turn, outside to that sweet, sweet air. She knew she wasn't completely out of the woods, and needed to get home to her safe bed and tub of ice cream as quickly as possible. As she was walking down the stairs leading to the gallery, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a familiar hair style hailing a cab. She couldn't put her finger on who it was. Not from that distance anyway. Her vision wasn't the best. Pebbles had to move closer or it would kill her all night. Three steps later, it dawned on her. The other woman.
Pebbles knew she shouldn't linger, but she needed to say something. Anything. She made the approach. Just as Pebbles had reached the other woman, a cab pulled up. How convenient. The other woman must've felt Pebbles breathing down her neck as she turned around with a startled expression on her face. Pebbles put her hands up to show she wasn't armed.
PEBBLES: I'm so sorry to startle you. I've just been having trouble getting a cab. Do you mind if we share this one?
The other woman softened her expression.
OTHER WOMAN: Not at all. Where are you headed?
Pebbles gambled.
PEBBLES: H Street?
OTHER WOMAN: If that was a question, then yes, that's where I'm headed too.
Pebbles smiled and opened the back door of the cab with a corralling motion.
PEBBLES: After you.
The other woman ducked her head and slid into the back seat of the cab.
OTHER WOMAN: My name is Cornelia, by the way.
Pebbles happened to turn back and take one last glance towards the brilliantly lit entrance of the gallery. At the top of the steps was none other than a reassembled Clayton, surveying the sidewalk out front like a hawk. His eyes met Pebbles' for just a moment before he made his way down the gallery steps at full speed.
Pebbles casually stepped into the cab.
PEBBLES: What a coincidence! Cornelia is my name too. I feel like we have a ton to talk about. Driver? H street please. Hurry.
For the second time that evening, Pebbles was just out of reach of one of the most powerful men on the planet.
