“Save the quack, psychological bullshit. I’m nothing like you.” Johnny’s cool dissipating, he grows agitated with the unbecoming comparison.
“Don’t tell me you want to be good,” Dr. Shaw huffs, taking keen advantage of his goading as it finally cracks Johnny’s apathetic exterior. “You weren’t made to be good, Mr. Vito. Your childhood…the beatings your father gave you…conditioned the person you are now.” He shrugs, going in for the kill. “Your own mother couldn’t even love you.”
“Shut up,” Johnny seethes, rattling the bars of his cell.
“She up and left you with a drunken…”
Dr. Shaw’s words are cut short as Johnny’s arm reaches through the space in the cell bars, his hand clenching at the lanky doctor’s necktie. Tightening his grip, Johnny pulls his arm back until Dr. Shaw’s face mashes up against the cold, steel frame separating them.
“I said I’m nothing like you. You’re a coward. You pay people to do your dirty work…like cutting the brake lines on the Bentleys’ car.” Yanking Dr. Shaw’s terrified face tighter still to the unforgiving metal frame, he lowers his head closer to the scientist’s ear, his words escaping at a whisper through painfully gritting teeth. “You wanna know how my father died in that house fire? I do my own dirty work.”
Dr. Shaw coughs quietly, his windpipe reviving as Johnny gives his tie one final tug before releasing him. His overconfident eyes grow intimidated at the delinquent’s confession of killing his own father and getting away with it. His concerns certainly not for the elder Vito, but his own safety after haggling with the bad boy.
“Perhaps I underestimated you,” Dr. Shaw saves face, straightening out his tie.
Johnny smirks as if to say,
Ya think.
A pair of stealthy footsteps make their way down the corridor, stopping at Johnny’s cell just behind Dr. Shaw. Johnny shakes his head, disproving, and turns his back to the unexpected guest.
“If you change your mind, you know where to find me,” Dr. Shaw offers once more before excusing himself.
Johnny throws his hand up over his shoulder, dismissing the lanky scientist and his proposition, his back and body language remaining closed off to his latest attractive visitor.
“Where’s your trusty cauterizer?” Brianna antagonizes Dr. Shaw, her arms crossed defiantly over her chest, her palms withdrawn and protected, as he passes her by in exiting the cell block.
Dr. Shaw completely ignores her, not so much as giving her a passing glance, symbolism that she is so far beneath him he didn’t even notice her presence.
“Please tell me you’re not thinking about cooperating with him?” Brianna approaches Johnny’s cell, gauging his intentions.
He spins around, the look in his eyes—anger verging on hurt that she would even have to ask. “Is that what you think of me?” he challenges, anger ultimately winning out as his voice rings with disgust.
She exhales sharply, her hands presenting out to her sides, palm side up. “I don’t know what to think, Johnny. What was that this morning?” She finds herself still questioning his unpredictable behavior. “You and Lon are supposed to be friends…like brothers. You fought like animals. And then five minutes later, you’re taking the rap for him.”
“For you,” Johnny corrects. “I took the rap for
you.”
“Go ahead and tell yourself that if it makes it more tolerable,” she obliges, disbelieving. “It was Lon they came for. The two of you pounded each other into the ground. With your own bare fists!” Her voice rises with the inconceivable thought. “But then you volunteered…insisted…on taking his place in the back of that police car.” Walking closer to his cell, she inspects him as if looking for some long-lost clue in his pale blue eyes. “Are you okay?”
“I’m not mental, if that’s what you’re asking.” Johnny bites the inside of his cheek, wishing he had the strength to turn away from her, tell her to leave, something—anything but stand there and look directly at her like some lovesick pup.
Standing this close to him, the marred presence of his face and clothing plays on her empathy. “Look at you,” she whispers, the cut to his eyebrow reminiscent of a time not so long ago she tended the wounds inflicted upon him by his own father in the barren living room of her deceased parents’ home. Still wearing Lon’s
shag shirt,
it’s roomy enough for the tail to reach her mouth as she wets it with her tongue before gently dabbing at the dried blood above Johnny’s eye.
He winces with the contact, silently cursing himself for not having the willpower to pull away. “Like déjà vu, huh?” His voice softens, as he, too, recalls a similar scenario, representing the first time he realized he had feelings for the nurturing jolie blonde.
Brianna nods, a tender smile forming as her hand trails his bruised cheekbone, further inspecting. “I just wish you two wouldn’t fight.”
“We’ll be fine. It’s not the first time and I’m sure it won’t be the last,” he says.
She tends to his knuckles wrapped loosely around the metal bars separating them, dried blood having settled upon the bony prominences of his hands.
Johnny watches her long, mascara-laden eyelashes effectively shielding her eyes from his and her full, pouty mouth as she presses it together with deep concentration in tidying his hands. “Why can’t you love me?” The question slips from his equally full lips before he can rein it in.
Brianna stops her busy work, those eyelashes wafting upward as she makes it a point to look at him, assured that such a dire question deserves a most honest and sincere reply. “Because I loved him first.”
Johnny shakes his head regrettably. “A day late and a dollar short,” he speaks the idiom, reflecting on how his timing has never been the best. He releases his hands from the bars, backing away from her, creating a tolerable distance between.
“I’m…” She begins.
“Don’t you dare.” He holds up his hand like a STOP sign. “I thought we settled this ‘I’m sorry’ business years ago. You shouldn’t ever be sorry for the way you feel, Brianna.” His chin rises high and proud, his wounded ego reviving.
But I am sorry. I’m sorry you feel the way you do and I’m sorry that I can’t return that. I wish I could, but I can’t,
she keeps her thoughts to herself, knowing they would only deter Johnny’s returning confidence. Instead, she mimics his behavior, her chin jutting with conviction. “Alright then, let’s get down to business. How do we get you out of here?”
“I’m working on that.”
“How?” she motions around his environment, completely confined.
“They gave me a phone call,” he says. Rubbing his hands together, his eyes begin to twinkle, he can’t help but boast, “And I made it count.”
“Your cousin?”
“It’s not for you to know,” Johnny halts her overstimulated mind. “The less you know, the better protected you are.”
“What I do know is that I am responsible for blowing up that warehouse,” she whispers, her hands clutching the metal restraints separating them.
“Shh!” he warns, his eyes darting about the cell block for any eavesdroppers.
“And you’re not going to take the fall for it,” she continues adamantly, her face nearly pressed against the iron bars as if that shields her confession. “I paid your cousin to blow…”
With one step forward, Johnny seizes her lips in his, figuring it to be the fastest way to get her to shut up.
“Ahem,” a meek, male voice sounds entering their
intimate
space.
Brianna pulls away, the back of her hand quickly covering her mouth, the apples of her cheeks heightening to a rosy hue as she identifies their visitor—the creepy hematologist from ETNA’s lab—Dr. Godfrey.
Stepping back away from his cell, solidifying a safe retreat, her eyes press together at the corners, a mixture of humiliation and exhilaration. “You can’t do that,” she scolds Johnny, her chest rising and failing laboriously.
“I just did,” he points out with a cocky grin. “And I’ll do it again if you don’t keep that tasty little mouth of yours shut.” He winks at her, his smile dissipating, intently serious that she refrain from tattling on herself any further.
“Oh yeah?” her sentiment somewhere between a nervous chuckle and a challenge. “We’ll see about that.” She storms out of the cell block unable to look at, much less greet, Dr. Godfrey for fear of what he may think of her kissing Johnny when she’s supposed to be with Lon.
“Why, Johnny V.,” Dr. Godfrey indulges in yet another moniker, his round face aglow as he steps up to the holding cell. “I wasn’t aware you and young Lon shared such similar tastes.”
“What took you so long?” Johnny ignores his probing.
“You only called me a few hours ago.” Dr. Godfrey taps his watch. “I don’t move as fast as I used to.” He smiles, considering his age. “Besides, I was in negotiations with young Lon.” He eyes Johnny curiously to see how that piece of information will set with him.
“What did he want?” Johnny bites hook, line and sinker.
Dr. Godfrey grins. “The same thing as you. Brianna’s safety.”
Johnny rolls his eyes as if annoyed by such a notion.
“And he wants you out of here. He’s a good friend, young Lon.” Dr. Godfrey’s brow rises with advisement, wondering if Johnny can say the same about himself.
“Whatever,” Johnny dismisses, unwilling to discuss his devotion or lack thereof. “Are you going to help me or not?”
“I would like very much to help you, but as you know Dr. Shaw mans the marionette in this show.” Dr. Godfrey mimes a puppeteer. “He’s the one you should be talking to.”
“Don’t give me that bullshit.” Johnny smirks, stepping closer to the iron bars separating him and the wily hematologist. “You let him think he runs the show. Save that unassuming ‘I just do what I’m told’ charade for someone who’s buying. You’re the one with the brains. The research. The know-how. If I’m bartering with anybody, it’s you.”
“Hmm,” Dr. Godfrey’s voice releases a high-pitched coo, completely satisfied with the favorable declaration. “And just what are we bartering for?” he obliges calmly, while internally his heartbeat thunders away, relishing in the possibility of having the bad boy on a string, concocting plans for him already.
Johnny looks around the cell block, once again perusing for any eavesdroppers, his voice resigning to a whisper. “What if I told you Castille and his
jolie blonde,”
he attempts to force distance between Brianna and his feelings for her with her least favorite title, “aren’t the only ones who are
extraordinary.”
Johnny’s emphasis on his word of choice in explaining things out of this world causes Dr. Godfrey’s ears to perk. “You’ve got my attention.”
“That skull. The one they found at the river. It’s not natural,” Johnny stops, his conscience at odds with what he is about to do.
“Yes. Go ahead,” Dr. Godfrey begs, egging him on.
“Ahh,” Johnny emits, frustrated before continuing, “that night. At the compound. When Brianna and I took that skull.” He shakes his head, his expression conflicted at exposing his secret.
“Yes. I recall. And a daring feat it was,” Dr. Godfrey proclaims, his smile proud as he works Johnny over, sure to compliment his ego. “What
about
the skull,
Daredevil?”
“The goddamn thing isn’t normal. I cut my fucking hand on it,” Johnny blurts out, his cursing second nature when he grows frustrated and conflicted. Extending his splayed hand to Dr. Godfrey, there on his middle finger is a smaller version of the same beaded scar that lines the palms of Brianna and Lon. “The sonofabitchin’ thing glowed emerald green,” he finishes, his whisper having grown to more of an incredulous spew, concerned for his own sanity with such a proclamation.
Dr. Godfrey’s body shudders uncontrollably with pure excitement. “Guard. Guard!” He calls, stroking his hand over his heart for fear of an attack, having waited his entire career for such a break.
Brianna pulls her silver coupe off the beaten path about a quarter mile down the road from ETNA’s desolate compound far outside New Orleans city limits. As she quietly exits her car, she grows aware of the sounds in the distance. Equipment roars and voices carry, laced with police and CSI lingo.
In a panic, she takes off running up the dirt road toward the monstrous entry gate. Chastising herself the entire way for leaving her black t-shirt at Lon’s, his shag shirt lighter in color will surely stand out against the dark Louisiana night.
Her ribcage bounding up and down as she rounds the corner, she halts at the barricaded entrance. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” she stammers at a whisper, pacing circles there in the dirt.
The entire compound is lit up like Christmas morning. Investigatory personnel swarm the remnants of the blown-up laboratory like bees to a hive.
“What am I going to do? I can’t let Johnny take the rap for this. I should just go and tell them, right now,” she talks to herself, her feet continuing to stir up dust. “What have I done?”
Just as her back turns to the diversion ditch aside the rustic road, a hand grips around her waist while another covers her mouth. She kicks and screams, but her cries are muffled as her captor wrestles her down into the ditch covering her with his frame.
“Brie,” Lon’s soothing yet pressing tone releases in her ear. “Shut it,” he refers to her mouth as he slowly releases his hand from it. Rolling up off of her, he sits upright helping her to do the same.
Wiping dirt from her face and hair, her frustrated hands work as fast as her mouth. “If one more man tells me to shut my mouth,” she recalls Johnny’s infinite wisdom preceded by his unscrupulous kiss, “I swear to God, I’m going to scream.”
“Shh,” Lon ignores her outburst.
“Oh, what? You think they’re going to hear us over all that machinery?” she argues, standing up to dust herself off.
“I’m not taking any chances. Now keep your voice down,” he whispers, joining her in brushing the ditch dirt off of his clothes.
“What are you doing here anyway?” she finally takes heed, her mouth seeking his ear at a hushed roar.
“You’re not the only one with a plan.”
“What plan?” she says. “They’re in there right now gathering evidence. It’s a little too late for a plan, don’t you think.”