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Twenty-Seven

FOUR DAYS LATER

Trace pulls into Justin's driveway, killing the engine before glancing over at Charly, who looks utterly terrified.

"Why are we here?"

"Why do you look like I just murdered your damn dog? This is where you're staying." He unbuckles his seatbelt, reaching over to undo hers before her hand clamps down firmly on his.

"No no no no no what do you mean this is where I'm staying? I thought I'd stay at a hotel...or sublet an apartment...or a shoebox outside your office building, any of those sound like fanfuckingtastic choices."

"You're staying in the poolhouse for a few days so we can get the apartment that he bought for Avery," Trace pauses to roll his eyes, "cleared of all her shit."

"These are my options? The misanthrope or Farrah Fawcett's old place?"

"Farrah Fawcett?" he raises an eyebrow.

Charly sighs, forcing out the explanation with mild embarrassment. "In my head she looks like Farrah Fawcett...you know, that poster that all guys used to have in the 70s with the perfect hair and the perfect teeth and the--"

"Yeah I got it," he chuckles. "And close, but you forgot the pure evil cunt part."

"Right, there is that. Though I don't think that part applies to Farrah Fawcett. I hope."

"Goddamn I didn't realize how much you babbled."

"Well that is not my fault. I'm pretty up front about my babbling. I'm a babbler, it's a compulsion and can't be helped and please let me stay anywhere but here."

"You'll be fine. Now get outta my damn car," he orders playfully. Stepping out of the driver's side, he swings around, opening the door for her and extending a hand to help her out. "Come on, I'll go in with ya, we'll say hi, you'll yawn really big and go to bed. Done."

"Fine," she mutters.

He retrieves her luggage from the trunk before leading her to the door, slipping his set of keys into the lock and letting them inside. "Yo J, we're here!" he calls out, leaving the suitcase in the foyer.

The sound of the television blaring in the den catches his attention and he jerks his head at Charly, signaling her to follow him. Before they get there Justin appears in front of them, dressed in only a pair of low-slung sweatpants and Charly looks away. She wishes that just once she could show up to this house and he'd wear a shirt, because as much as it made her squirm when they were actually together, her face feels even more flushed now.

"You're home early, man." Trace says, checking his watch.

"We accidentally double-booked Esmee for a shoot and the studio, the photographer took precedence. Fucking night shoots," Justin answers, his gaze flitting to Charly briefly. "You guys get in okay?"

"Fine," she smiles at him awkwardly.

He barely acknowledges her before his attention is back on Trace, scratching absently at his head. "We gotta go to the warehouse at some point tomorrow, new shipments just got in."

"I know, I'm on it." Trace throws an arm around Charly's shoulder. "'Specially since I gots me a new assistant and all, now. We gotta get her a car."

"She can't drive," Justin rolls his eyes, turning to her. "I'll take you for a lesson, Friday. You at least need a fucking permit. You alright to do that?" He gestures at her stomach.

"I'm not gonna be racing--"

"Simple yes or no question, Charly, I don't need the version with the repartee."

"Yes," she bites back, shooting Trace a look. "I'm kind of jet-lagged, I think I'm gonna--"

"Whatever. Glad you made it here in one piece and with some common sense," he shrugs indifferently.

"Dude, maybe you wanna chill the fuck out and cut her a break for a second," Trace hisses, knowing exactly where this mood is stemming from but he has no patience for it at the moment.

Justin clenches his jaw, all her bruises and all the tears still fresh in his mind. Somehow, now it's easier to be angry, knowing that she's actually going to come out of it physically okay. "Last I checked, she didn't need a babysitter, Trace. Now I've got some stuff I need to look over for a meeting with Johnny tomorrow, so 'scuse me for not joining the tea party," he sighs, the slightest bit of guilt nagging at him when he sees her pained expression. "The poolhouse is set up for you, try and actually get some fucking rest, would you?"

He disappears up the stairs and Charly counts to ten in her head before reaching over to punch Trace in the arm. "You are SO full of bad ideas."

"Okay, let's get your shit into your room and then go get a drink. Or ten," Trace wrinkles his nose in disgust. "'Cause dickwad up there is on the rag or some shit."

"I don't think drinking is a good--"

"Yeah that wasn't so much of a request. I'm kinda your boss now, so you kinda gotta do what I tell you. C'mon."



><><<br />
"I think...this is a bad idea." Charly squints, trying to focus through her blurred vision. "Like in that eat-twenty-marshmallows-in-a-row kind of way."

Trace laughs, sliding the shot glass closer to her. She's clearly drunk, but this is probably exactly what she needs right now. Or at least, it's the best way he can think of to distract her. "It was a bad idea two drinks ago, now it's an idea full of WIN."

"You are a baaad influence." She downs the shot quickly, wincing as the feels it spill down the back of her throat with a slight burn. Turning to face him, she gives him a lopsided grin before her eyes grow large with worry. "Wait! No...I have to work tomorrow...for you! Because you're like...my boss now. Like a legitimate boss. Like in 'His Girl Friday'. Only less witty. And you're not my ex-husband. Cause I don't have one of those...thank fuck."

He stares at her, slightly bewildered before a flicker of recognition passes over his features. "Oh right! That movie about the newspapers...and the hot chick who's kind of a bitch to him and does the stupid girl thing the whole way through."

"Cause he's a cad! But a charming one...those are the worst..."

"That's not a word."

"Is so."

"You made it up!"

"YOU made it up," Charly drawls with a quiet giggle, groping around the bar counter for her drink. "Oh this is a terrible plan."

Trace shrugs. "You wanna go back to the house and hang with Mr. Congeniality, be my guest. Otherwise shut the fuck up and relax, damn girl."

She nods her head slowly, processing his words. Vaguely, she can conclude that she'd much rather be out with Trace right now than suffering through Justin's clipped, irritated excuse for conversation. And again, she finds herself second-guessing, wondering if she was entirely too impulsive in agreeing to come work for Trace because it's blatantly clear that Justin wants little to do with her while she's here.

It isn't a deterrent, exactly, because she isn't here for him and that was never the intention. But it does hurt a little, having him push so hard to get her out of New York only for him to act like the last thing he needs is to have her within two feet of him.

"He was so mad," she sighs, taking a large swig from the glass of whiskey. "I shoulda gotten a mixer, I think. I'm not Billie Holiday just yet, y'know."

"He'll get over it. He's just pissy and still riled up over...all that..." Trace averts his gaze from hers, realizing he's bringing up things probably better left unsaid for the time being. Or ever, for that matter.

"It's not his fault," Charly says simply.

His curiosity gets the better of him as he lifts his glass, signaling for a refill from the bartender before he turns back to face her. "Can I ask you somethin'?"

"You just did," she jokes lamely, snorting a little.

"Why didn't you ask your parents or something, when you needed some money? That's what they do, ya know, help out when you need 'em to."

"Is that right?"

"Generally, yeah, that's the idea."

"I haven't seen or talked to my mom since I was fourteen. She's no Joan Crawford, buuut she wouldn't be running to come help after the way I left."

Trace hesitates, not entirely sure he should press further, but she seems okay enough to answer the questions and as long as that's the case, he doesn't see the harm in asking. "Why? Did you leave, I mean."

"'Cause the last time my stepdad and me bonded I had a broken neck and a concussion," she says flatly. "So I reported him...and she begged me not to, and I did it anyway. She asked me to tell them I lied...I wouldn't. I told her to choose...and she did. The end."

"That's fucked up," he breathes.

Charly shakes her head, her index finger circling the rim of her glass lazily. She hasn't thought about this in years. Over time, it's become easy to push the memory down far enough to suffocate it, to pretend that those events haven't profoundly shaped who she is and the way she lived her life up until this point. But there it is, the fact of the matter. "It's not, though. I get it...she loved him. You do stupid things and ignore...whatever you need to when you love someone like that."

"Not when your fuckin' kid's involved!"

She laughs, her eyes glassy as she looks at Trace, nothing but concern lighting his face. He can't dissect how it is that she's so calm about this, the way she tells the story as if it belongs to someone else.

As if it's not something she dealt with; rather, like it's a bad bedtime story she overheard somewhere. This kind of nonchalance doesn't settle well with him, and he begins to understand Justin's extreme frustration with the situation and by extension, Charly herself.

"You need to understand...my mom and I weren't me and Dylan. Dylan is...she's me. She's my insides. She is every single second of happiness I've ever had and...I wasn't that, for my mom. She took care of me, like it was her job until she couldn't give up what I wanted her to...doesn't make her the bad guy. Some people don't just have kids and poof, they're mothers. Some people don't want it. That's okay."

"I can't believe you're not pissed."

"I was...but that was eight years ago. What am I gonna, blame her for the rest of my life for every bad decision I make? Fuck that, that's not fair. Besides, one of those bad decisions ended up being my favorite thing on the planet, next to Oreo sundaes. So I say, two points for me!"

Trace grins, lifting his hands in surrender. "Alright alright, fair 'nuff. You holding up okay or am I gonna have to carry your ass home?"

"One more round, good sir."

I love that all your minds went straight to the gutter.

Twenty-Eight

"How's the hangover?"

Charly jumps at the sound of his voice, a small yelp of surprise spilling out her throat. "Fucking hell, what are you, MacGyver now?"

Justin notes the circles under her eyes, the area surrounding her pupils rimmed red. "You didn't sleep."

"No point," she shrugs, reaching into the freezer for ice cubes. She starts filling the zip lock bag in her hand, ignoring the glare coming from his direction. "You knew we were out?"

"Woke up this morning to about twenty texts from Trace. They start with 'you suck, cockface' and end with 'getting burritos' spelled b-o-r-i-t-o-e-s, so yeah, kinda figured.

Charly laughs, nodding. "And he shared that burrito with the toilet bowl once we got back here, very generously. Consider your pool house christened."

Justin's head shoots toward the direction of the bedroom. "Trace is here?"

"Yeah, he's still asleep."

"Trace is here in your bed?"

"Yep."

"Why's Trace here still sleeping in your bed?" He wants to kick himself for the shrill tone his voice has taken on, not a damn thing hiding his blatant paranoia.

"Because we were busy having hot hate sex, bonding over what an asshole you are," she deadpans, earning another glare from him.

"Fucking hysterical," he mutters, closing the distance between them.

"Well then quit making ridiculous assumptions. Seriously, could your voice have gotten any higher?"

Justin watches her close the bag of ice, pressing it against her stomach. "What're you doing?'

"It's supposed to keep the swelling down. Slash hopefully make the 'someone is lighting my insides on fire' feeling go away," she says, leaning against the fridge.

"Gimme that." He snatches it out of her grasp, leading her to the kitchen counter. "Come here."

Justin hooks his hands underneath her arms, hoisting her onto the counter. He rolls her shirt up, stopping right above her ribcage.

Charly hisses softly as a flash of cold hits her bare skin and his gaze locks on hers, her brown eyes dull and tired. Without thinking, he reaches up, his thumb tracing her jawline, the bruise there now a sickly green color. "I'm...I'm glad, you know. That you're...okay."

"I'm always okay."

He cocks his head to the side, contemplative. "What I said...before, when I found out about Rob--"

"Justin you don't have to--"

"Shut up, for a second, would you? I'm sorry. I am. And you know I don't think that--"

"I know," she cuts in.

"You and the whole shut up concept just don't mesh, do ya?" It's something close to teasing, and she can't help but smile at him.

"Justin, chill, okay? You cleaned me up while I was covered in the stench of my own piss, the only way you could be further off the hook for whatever you said was if I'd shit myself."

He shakes his head, genuinely laughing for a second before something in him recognizes that this is too familiar for them, falling back into old habits and he refuses to let that happen. Maybe he feels responsible in a way, maybe it just boils down to lack of trust. Whatever it is, she can see it in his face as he leans forward, his mouth a breath away from hers.

"I swear to God, Charly, if you go into self-destruct mode again I will kick your ass. I'm not playing--you're gonna sleep and eat and get up and go into work til' you get her back, and after, and I'm going to be the worst nag on the goddamn planet if I see you do anything stupid. Getting hammered with Trace and going in without sleeping is at the top of the list, by the way."

She starts to say something, visibly irate, but Trace's voice interrupts them.

"Am I getting in the middle of some kinky foreplay thing here?"

Justin rolls his eyes, taking a step back. "Your stank ass better be ready to go in ten minutes. You make us late, we're getting Mexican for lunch. I'm feelin' like a burrito, how 'bout you, Charly?"

Trace wrinkles his nose in disgust, a fresh wave of nausea hitting him at the mere idea of it. "You're a cocksucker, you know that?"

><><<br />
Charly dumps a stack of papers onto the table, setting her hands on her hips.

Trace looks up at her, an eyebrow raised in interested confusion.

"I meant to push five, but apparently hit fifty. Copies. I fucked up making copies--aren't you glad you hired me over all those other shiny, qualified assistants?"

"Sit down, you're making my head hurt."

"I don't have time to sit, I need you to tell me where the recycling bin is."

"Leave it, we'll make paper planes and throw them at Justin's head later," he grins, impish.

Charly sighs as her phone goes off. "I'm really impressed one of you hasn't killed the other yet, the more I get to know you. Shit." Worry mars her features at the number that appears on the screen.

"Everything cool?"

"Yeah, it's just...Drew. Or Dylan, I'm not sure."

"Go take it."

"No I can--"

"Go. Now. Move your ass!" he ushers her out of the room. Charly gives him a thankful smile before disappearing out the door.

><><<br />
"Momma, on Christmas Daddy said we can all go ice skating!" Dylan chirps excitedly from the other end of the line.

Charly picks at the lint on her jeans, her back against the cement wall of the building. She runs through the dates in her mind, wincing once she figures out what day the holiday lands on. "Christmas is on a Thursday, sweets."

"I know! And I don't have school, so we go ice skating, and then watch movies all day! Daddy bought me lots of Oreos and he said Santa would bring more."

She closes her eyes, Dylan's smile, identical to Drew's, fresh in her mind. As much as she wants to be there, it isn't feasible. The reality of it begins to set in, the notion that this is going to be the first Christmas Dylan won't be dragging her to Tompkins Square Park to play in the snow. That she won't get to pick out a tree with her, or see her light up at the presents underneath it.

She's going to miss it all.

"I don't think I'm gonna make it there for Christmas, Dylan."

"But Momma--"

"Remember? Every Saturday."

"But it's Christmas." Her disappointment carries through the line, clear as day.

"I know...but hey look at it this way--I'll get there Saturday, and we can do Christmas all over again, huh? You know...like Groundhog Day...only fun." Charly tries to sound more enthusiastic than she feels, but can't quite get there.

"Okaay..." comes the resigned sigh. "Daddy wants to talk to you...I love you Momma, come home soon please, Daddy sings Moon River worse than you."

"Love you too, shithead." A wistful smile pulls at Charly's lips. She hears the shuffling and some static as the phone exchanges hands, Drew's distinct growl of a cough as he clears his throat.

"Hey, kid...how you doin'?" he asks.

"You told her I could come for Christmas? What the fuck is wrong with you, Drew?"

"I don't see why--"

"Because I get Saturday, that's it, I don't get to pop in like the crazy neighbor whenever I feel like it, you know it doesn't work like that!"

"It's Christmas, I can talk to them or...something."

"Don't."

"Charly...just...come, okay? I won't say anything to them, it's not a big deal and it'll make her happy," his voice gets lower, "Let me help fix this."

She sucks in a breath, wishing that he could. As much as she wants to take him on his word, to believe that she could pack up for a day or two and have the Christmas Dylan wants, she wants, maybe even Drew wants, she can't. She can't trust him enough to risk it. There's no good way to say it, so she keeps quiet.

"Charly?"

"Honey...we are where we are. It's your first Christmas with her...make it good, alright? I'm talking It's A Wonderful Life good."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. Listen, I gotta get back to work so I'll give you a call tomorrow, okay?" she rushes to get off the phone, barely giving him a chance to say goodbye before she slides it closed.

As she turns the corner Charly nearly bumps into Justin, whose hands come up to grip her arms, steading her before any direct contact is made. "You okay?"

"Newsflash, Justin, we're not in The Maltese Falcon, quit following me around trying to play detective," she snaps, ripping herself out of his hold.

"I'm not fucking following you around because, NEWSFLASH," he mimics, "one of us is actually working right now. I came to tell you Trace needs you to put in a lunch order for the meeting at one."

She brushes past him. "Fine."

"Hey!" he catches her wrist, hauling her back. "What's wrong with you?"

"Justin...I'm grown. Much as you might want to overcompensate because you've got some martyr complex, I don't need a babysitter and I don't need you...what were your words...acting like the worst nag on the planet just because it's gonna make you feel better, alright? So back the fuck off."

Justin's mouth hangs open, knowing well enough this outburst can't possibly be all about him but unable to find any kind of coherent way to respond. He watches her slip back into the building, shaking slightly.

He waits a few minutes, counting time in his head until he's sure she would have made it upstairs, before he follows suit.

Pervs. Except for Hollie, who I shall henceforth refer to as Captain Sobriety.

Twenty-Nine

ONE MONTH LATER

"Ease up on the fucking clutch!"

"I am!"

"No you hear that noise--the screeching--"

"Well, I'm TRYING--"

"That's the engine, begging for its life--"

"If you'd stop screaming in my ear like a banshee maybe I could--"

"If you'd take a second to listen to what I'm--"

"I'm gonna kill BOTH of you!" Rachel shouts from the back seat, slouching down as they both turn to face of her, both having forgotten she was there to begin with. "Or myself," she adds, quieter.

Charly brings the car to a jerky halt, her knuckles white, fingers wrapped around the steering wheel. "Seriously, I'm not understanding why I need to drive anyway. The public transportation system seems very nice, a little smelly but I'll take it over the impending death thing waiting to happen here."

"You know how long it's gonna take you to get around on the bus in L.A.?" Justin raises an eyebrow, not remotely amused. "This is not that goddamn hard, Charly, you need to learn how to drive at some point in your life."

"In New York? Yeah, driving's really up there on the totem pole of necessity." She rolls her eyes, staring down the empty parking lot with blatant disdain.

"Girl's got you there," Rachel drawls, plugging her headphones back in her ears. Justin turns around, trying to silence her with a look. "What? I can hear you over my Ipod, so if you're not gonna shut up I'm on her side. Hos over bros, dude."

Charly bites her lip to keep from grinning.

"You can quit smirking," he snaps. "You're not in New York and fuck if you know when you can get back there permanently so yeah, for now, you need to learn how to drive."

An awkward pause passes between them, Justin cursing inwardly, thinking that he might have gone too far given the brief flicker of hurt that passes over her features. Just as quickly it's gone and she trains her gaze in front of her.

"I didn't mean it like that," he says softly.

"Okay," she nods.

He's been back from Tennessee barely a week and can't keep his frustration with her contained. Maybe part of it has something to do with the fact that she refused to come home with them. Which, barring two Saturdays spent in New York basically means she spent Christmas and New Year's alone, running mundane errands Trace felt obligated to leave her.

It was nothing she couldn't have done surrounded by people she knew that she was comfortable with, yet she had insisted on staying behind, not wanting to interrupt.

Interrupt WHAT exactly he's not sure, but as easily riled as he gets, he doesn't have the energy to fight with her. Which is ironic, considering all they've been doing for the past two hours crammed into his car is bitching at each other. And driving Rachel crazy in the process, though that's a small perk.

Charly's foot lowers onto the break as she throws her hair up into a ponytail, still adjusting to whatever passes as winter in Los Angeles. She's used to ice and wind and snow, and her wardrobe reflects it. Unfortunately, said wardrobe is a little too much for this kind of warmth and she finds herself sweating under layers of clothing most days, despite the fact that Trace keeps pushing her to take the company card and buy some clothes. Somehow, it doesn't sit well with her.

"I'm tired," she says with a small sigh. "And I have to run those samples over to the buyer for Trace before five, so..."

"Yeah, okay." Justin rubs a hand over his face tiredly. "I gotta drop Rach off at a friend's first, then we can take the samples and head home, I guess, if you're cool with that."

And there's the other factor adding fuel to all the tension--she's still staying at the guesthouse, per Trace's request. His exact words being something to the effect of "It's a little Single White Female putting her up in Avery's place, only you're the psycho stalker."

Charly's proximity to him is proving to be difficult to handle, but he can venture a guess he'd be worse off having to deal with being in Avery's old apartment (the one he bought for her because she needed 'extra space') with the girl who's currently testing his sanity.

"That's fine." Charly unbuckles her seatbelt, killing the engine as she climbs out the driver's side.

><><<br />
"You hungry?" Justin drops his keys on the kitchen counter, heading straight for the fridge.

"I could eat," Charly shrugs, situating herself on one of the chairs behind the island.

She fiddles with her cell phone, snapping it open and closed, searching for missed calls that aren't there. Leaning back into the chair she stretches her arms over head, tugging on the hem of her shirt as it rides up past her stomach.

He sneaks a glance back, his eyes traveling over the length of her, shaking his head to clear his thoughts as he turns back around, searching through the freezer for something that looks edible.

"How're your ribs?" he asks tentatively, pulling out some hamburger meat to inspect.

"Good, fine, mostly. Still kind of sore but...fine."

"You sure? Cause you know you've got the insurance so if you wanna go get a checkup--"

"I'm fine, Mary Poppins, relax." Charly offers him a slight smile but he doesn't return the favor.

Simply put, it's awkward. They're awkward. Normally, the high points of a break-up include never having to deal or interact with the other person thereafter, unless it's voluntary. But none of this is entirely voluntary on either of their parts. This, on top of the fact that their courtship, beginning to end, was murky at best, in terms of where they actually stood.

So now, Charly's essentially living in his backyard and making nice with his best friend, trying to get her life organized.

And he's trying his level best to ignore every inappropriate thought that pops into his head.

Which requires more effort than he initially thought it would.

Twenty minutes later Justin sits beside her, sliding her plate over and he opens his mouth to say something but she's too busy inhaling the hamburger for him to bother. He watches her, oddly fascinated, taking small bites from his own, amazed how in this one single way she's the least self-conscious woman he's ever known.

"You eat like a pig," he comments with a laugh.

"I am so okay with that," Charly mumbles through a mouth full of food.

"Yeah, got that much."

"What're you...saying...this isn't...proper dining etiquette?"

"That shit is nasty."

She covers her mouth, muffling her laughter as she swallows. Brushing her hands off onto the plate, she looks over at him, shaking her head. "You eat like a girl."

"Least one of us does." Justin bumps his knee against hers playfully, biting into the burger.

She doesn't miss the way he keeps his leg against hers after the fact, clearing her throat uncomfortably as her mind races, desperate to find some other avenue of conversation. "So...Trace mentioned your birthday's in a few weeks?"

"Twenty-eight..." he drawls out with a wince.

"Old man."

"Yes I am."

"You know it's the same day as Dylan's?"

"Really?"

"No fucking wonder you two got on so well."

Justin piles her plate on top of his now empty one, clearing them both off the counter as he hops down from the chair, lowering his head to her ear. "Well ya know what they say about us Aquarius folk?"

"You're both stubborn as fuckall?" Charly folds her arms across her chest, putting some distance between them.

"Um, NO. We're full of AWESOME, that's what."

"Oh, right, that must be it..."

"You gonna go up to New York for it? Six, it's a big deal, y'know. I started putting clothes on at six."

She grins at him as he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. "That must've been a very proud moment for you."

"Nah, my Momma made me do it."

"Sounds about right," she pauses. "I can't go. It's a Wednesday, so...I'm gonna help Trace plan your surprise party that's apparently not a surprise at all because you're Shirley Temple and the princess gets to oversee everything."

He takes this as a cue to change the subject, her uncomfortable shifting in the seat giving him enough of an indication that she has no desire to discuss Dylan's birthday. "Trust me, you do NOT want Trace planning that party alone. Left to his devices--"

"It'd be much less of a suckfest?" Trace interrupts as he enters the kitchen, throwing his arms around Charly's shoulders casually.

Justin watches the display, how she eases back into his arms, no hesitation to the gesture at all. Something about it irks him in ways the logical part of him knows it shouldn't.

"You're back early," he says, his tone clipped.

Trace shoots him a puzzled glance. "Nah, I'm done for the day. Came over to see if pretty girl over here wanted to come grab a movie with me."

"Which one?" she looks up at him, her head against his chest.

Over the past month Trace has become the closest thing to a friend she has here. Phone calls with Lauren are one thing, but it's not quite the same as the physical presence of someone calming the irrational out of her. Of being both a confidante and a disciplinarian at the same time, as well as just being someone new she doesn't know--or need to know--as intimately as she knows Justin.

It's nice in its simplicity, and the lines are clearly drawn. During work hours he's very much her boss, but when the day's done and they're both exhausted, Trace is just another guy who, strangely enough, has quite a few things in common with her.

"Gilda's showin' over at this old time theater in Brentwood. You up for it?"

"You just want to see Rita Hayworth do the hair flip thing," she teases, elbowing him lightly in the ribs.

"Uh, yeah, you bet your ass. What you think, I wanna fuckin' go sit through a musical for kicks?" Trace shakes his head, looking to Justin for backup. "Goddamn women."

Justin glares at him, dumping the dishes in the sink before stalking past him. "Whatever, but you better not fucking get her drunk again."

"Justin--" Charly starts, confused by his sudden shift in his temper. "You can come with us, you know."

"Sit through a black and white flick with you two talking the whole way through? Pass." He brushes by them without another word.

"I never realized how moody he is."

Trace chuckles, leading her out of the chair by her wrist. "Yeah, that's J. Soon as he thinks you're playing with his favorite toy he'll pitch a fucking fit. Been doin' it since we were four."

She follows him toward the front door. "If I'm the toy in this scenario you're seriously about to lose your favorite appendage."

"No I'm not. Cause if that happens, who's gonna take you to watch Gilda, huh?" Charly's silence gives him enough leverage to throw her a smug smile as he opens the door for her. "That's what I thought. After you, pretty girl."

I'm glad to be amusing someone other than just me.

Thirty

"Admit it! You like musicals," Charly prods, reaching over to steal a french fry off his plate.

"Excuse you, woman, get your own fries!" Trace shoos her away with a laugh. "And quit saying I like musicals so damn loud--we're at the Ivy for fuck's sake!"

She blinks at him, the terminology completely lost on her.

"It's like...basically where the you go if you wanna be seen by the paps, but I really just like the fries and it's not like I'm Justin, so...but still...shut it about the musicals!"

"So you're not denying that you like them."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't say you disliked them."

"Listen, she was fuckin' hot."

"Yes, but you liked the MOVIE..." she teases, grabbing another fry despite his protests. "Okay, be right back, ladies' room."

Trace snorts. "Yeah lemme know when there are any ladies present, would ya?"

"Oh don't even pretend I'm not your new favorite person ever."

"You're cracked," he quips, watching her leave.

Out of habit he scans the restaurant, sure enough that he won't be recognized but paranoid nonetheless. His gaze lands on one woman in particular, and a familiar dread fills his stomach as she makes her way over to him.

"Trace?" she asks, some sense of smugness lingering in her features.

"Elisha...hey...how's it goin'?"

"Good, I'm great, actually. How're you?"

"Good, y'know. Just working and whatnot..." he trails off, the same old idiocy he's always felt around her springing up full force.

She raises an eyebrow. "So you're just here. At the Ivy. Eating...alone?"

"Well..."

Charly re-emerges from the bathroom, and as she's walking back to the table spots a pretty blonde chatting with Trace. She smiles, assuming he's flirting until she actually takes a closer look at him. He's shifting in his seat, playing with his food, and it's around the time when he knocks his water glass over and starts frantically grabbing napkins to clean up the spill that she understands what's going on.

Taking an alternate route, she circles a few tables so that when she reaches theirs she comes up from behind them. She bends down, locking her arms around his neck and pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Sorry I took so long, babe."

The blonde takes a step back, obviously irked. "Not alone then, I guess."

Trace sets a hand over Charly's, mildly confused but utterly thankful. "Nope, not so much. Good to see you, Elisha."

She disappears out of view and Charly crosses over, re-claiming her seat.

"What the hell was that?" he asks, leaning forward.

"You just had that 'ex girlfriend who always makes my life miserable' thing going on, so I thought I'd lend a hand," she shrugs.

Trace whistles an agreement. "You're right, pretty girl. You are officially my favorite new person ever."

"Good. Now hand over the fries."

><><<br />
TWO DAYS LATER

Charly sneaks a glance over at Justin, his jaw set, clenching and unclenching as he drives down the highway. He hasn't so much as said a word to her that doesn't have something to do with driving lessons in two days, and she can't quite figure out why exactly that is.

"So..." she starts, hesitant. "I did okay today, right? Didn't murder any of your orange cones and I can park now, sort of, so I say cookies for me!" She smiles, but he simply shoots her a disinterested glare. "Alright then, Chatty Cathy you are most definitely not, today. Got it."

"You're getting a bodyguard," he says flatly.

"What?"

"Your little dinner date with Trace is all over the damn internet, you're getting a bodyguard."

"We were just grabbing dinner after the movie--"

"Don't care."

"I don't need a bodyguard, Justin. For one, I'm not Whitney Houston."

"It's not up for discussion."

"Considering I'm gonna be the one with the Hulk trailing after me, yeah I'm gonna say let's discuss for a sec."

Justin flicks on the windshield wipers, the day uncharacteristically rainy. His blood is already boiling at the memory of the picture, the pair of them too close for comfort. Anymore, all he can think about is what exactly it is they do when he's not around, because their working relationship isn't remotely close to professional. The picture only confirms what he already suspects, and it's taking every ounce of his self-control to keep quiet about it.

He knows himself, and how close he is to blowing up at Charly, whether it's warranted or not. Though he's pretty sure it would be.

"You're getting a fucking bodyguard and you're gonna deal with it without bitching because I'm not having it hang over my head when you get mauled by some crazy ass fan or some crazy ass guy."

"What guy would possibly--"

"Have you seen you?" he snaps.

Somewhere, there's an ass backwards compliment buried in the accusation but by now, she's too livid to take note of it. "What exactly are you really pissed about?"

"I'm not letting you become a liability."

"I'm at risk of being a liability because I had dinner with my boss? I didn't realize I was in a Hitchcock movie, but huh, now that you mention it..." Charly trails off, rolling her eyes. "Seriously, why are you all of a sudden in pissy panic mode cause I'm a little lost here."

"Yeah what else is fucking new," Justin mutters underneath his breath. "You wanna have dinner? You have dinner, somewhere that's oh I don't know, NOT the Ivy. That place is swarming with photographers just waiting to get exactly the picture they got, you kissing Trace--"

"On the cheek! And he explained to you already what that was, so why the fuck you're still harping on it is beyond me."

"I'm harping on it because now they're gonna follow you around, with or without him, you're some new mystery woman who's in remote proximity to me. You need to wise the fuck up, Charly, this is not New York and you can't just go around screwing your boss without someone taking note."

She sucks in a breath, releasing it as the weight of his words settles into her gut. Looking down, she adjusts her skirt, pulling it over her knees, some kind of realization just now dawning on her. "You're not pissed about the photographers," she breathes. "You're pissed because you think that...me and Trace..."

Justin flinches slightly as her laughter rings out, loud and clear and she bends forward, clutching at her stomach, her breaths coming out in short, spastic bursts as she tries to calm herself.

"What the fuck is so funny? You're with him all the goddamn time with your stupid inside jokes and old movies--"

"Right, so therefore we must be going at it like rabbits," Charly laughs harder, wiping stray tears from her eyes.

"Wouldn't be out of left field," he seethes, trying to keep his focus on the road but struggling. "WHY are you still laughing?"

"Because!"

"Because what!"

"Because I love YOU, you fucking idiot!" Her expression sobers and she looks away from him, out the window at the trees passing them by, wishing herself anywhere but here.

Justin mouth hangs open, dumbstruck for a second before he swerves sharply, taking them off the road. He pulls into an isolated rest area, shoving the gear into park, killing the engine, and unbuckling his seat belt so he can face her.

"Get out."

"What?"

"Get out of the car, Charly."

She stares at him in disbelief. "Are you kidding me right now?"

"You can call Trace, I'll tell him where you are so he can come pick you up."

"Justin, don't be ridiculous."

He shakes his head, needing to put as much physical distance between them as he can. The longer she doesn't budge, the less he can control his impulses. "Charly, I swear to God you need to get out of this fucking car now, otherwise--"

"Otherwise what? You're gonna yell at me some more?" she asks. Throwing her hands up in defeat, she sighs, unbuckling her seatbelt. "Alright, fine..." She goes to open the door to the passenger side, turning back to him. "I really don't know what your--"

Justin catches her wrist, yanking her back to him, his mouth crushing hers before she has time to say anything else. She fights him at first, his lips sliding over hers, impatient and desperate, but finds herself giving into it sooner than her mind can scream logic at her.

His hands go on either side of her waist, hoisting her carefully over the stickshift and onto his lap, fingers running up to tangle themselves in her hair as his other hand travels down, pushing her skirt up past her thighs.

Charly wraps her legs around him, fumbling distractedly with the zipper of his jeans as he yanks her head back by her hair, his mouth leaving hers, lips closing over her neck as his tongue snakes out to taste her. She closes her eyes, trying to work his jeans off and concentrate, though the latter task at hand is difficult enough.

The horn sounds loudly, both of them jumping at the noise until he realizes her back is jammed against the steering wheel of the Jeep. Reaching down, he finds the lever to ease the seat back.

"Sorry," she mumbles sheepishly.

"Shut up," he growls, pulling her back down, his kisses rough and unheeding. Part of her likes it; part of her is just plain scared, but she understands that there's some basic, primal necessity on his part for it and she isn't going to argue or stop him.

Because when it's said and done, she trusts him.

And she loves him.

And right now, this is what Justin thinks he needs.

She slips out of her underwear, a little awkwardly as he reaches into his pants, pulling himself out of his boxers. For a brief moment, his eyes meet hers--looking for assurance that this is okay. Charly nods, and his hands go back on either side of her hips, lifting her up before he lowers her onto him in one swift motion.

"Fuck, Charly..." he groans, burying his face in the crook of her neck, allowing her time to adjust to him.

Tilting his chin up, she lowers her head, pressing her lips against his, her fingers scratching gently against his scalp. "It's okay," she whispers, and it's all the permission he needs.

His fingernails dig into her hips as he slides out halfway, slamming back inside her a little too forcefully, and they both know it. Charly reaches behind him, wrapping her arms around the head of the chair, rocking forward as gently as she can, trying to find some kind of balancing act.

Justin's mouth finds hers again as they manage to set a steady rhythm, and he can already feel it, the knowledge that there's no way in hell this'll last long, not right now, not with this girl of all the women he's been with.

"Justin," she whimpers quietly against his lips, her hipbone bumping into his as his movements gradually become more frantic, quickening his pace, then thinking better of it and slowing down because for all his selfishness, he wants her to enjoy this too.

"Come on, baby," he pleads, fighting the familiar strain building in his stomach.

"Oh, shit..."

"You like that?"

"Yeah," she grinds into him, easing back so he can take the lead and it's torturous, but for all their frustration and irritation with each other, and as much as anger as he's been harboring, it's worth it.

Justin closes his eyes, remembering that she said this was okay, even if his own brain is arguing that this is not how he should be doing this, fucking her in his car like a ragdoll. But he can feel his body reacting anyway and can't rationalize enough to stop it now.

"Shit, I'm gonna..." His nails dig further into her sides as he tries to push himself deeper inside her, and it's only a few more seconds before every muscle in his body tenses and it's over, some voice that vaguely resembles his own grunting its release.

His forehead comes to rest against her chest, trying like hell to catch his breath.

Charly runs a hand through his hair, listening silently to his heartbeat as he calms himself down, the fogginess of his thoughts clearing just enough for Justin to ask himself what the fuck he's just done.