TITLE: Interim
AUTHOR: Susy Strom
FANDOM: Pitch Black
PAIRING: Riddick/ofc
RATING: R for sexual depictions
DISCLAIMER: The Characters of Pitch Black are copyright to USA Films. There is no infringment intended by the use of them in this story. I claim none of those characters.
SUMMARY: Two fugitives find a way to help each other. This story is set before the occurences in the movie Pitch Black.
Chapter 1, (1-3, 4-5)
"Buy you a drink?"
Bet jerked upright, startled by the offer. Damn! She was bleary-eyed with fatigue, but that was no excuse for allowing a stranger to sneak in under her radar.
Her fingers curled around her nearly empty glass. She tilted it from side to side, frowning as she considered his invitation. She'd nursed this drink as long as she decently could. One swallow, maybe two, and she'd have to either buy another or yield her place at the bar to a paying customer.
Why not let the stranger pick up the tab? She wasn't trolling for company. If he thought she was a hooker she'd set him straight soon enough. Let him pay the rent for another hour on this stool, buy her another hour in the relative safety of this crowded bar.
"Sure," Bet said, raising her eyes to the stranger. "Why not?"
If her long hesitation put him off, his expression revealed nothing of it. An ingratiating smile creased his face as he extended a hand.
"My name is Lawrence. Lawrence Johns."
Bet had been ready to dismiss him as another horny creep, but his manners and appearance set him apart from the other patrons of this disreputable dive. With his blue uniform and formal demeanor, he looked as out of place as she felt. Which raised the unsettling question: What did he want from her?
She signaled the bartender to bring another drink before she shook the proffered hand.
"Lawrence?" Bet cocked a brow. "Isn't that name a bit grand for a place like this?"
Rudeness didn't faze him. "Okay," he said agreeably. "Call me Johns." He leaned into the retinal scanner, charging the drink to his account.
"Thanks for the drink, Johns." Bet raised the glass to her lips, studying him over the rim. His clean-cut, chiseled good looks might once have appealed to her. Blue-eyed. Tanned. Fit. Johns was uncommonly handsome. A dimpled chin and a fine dusting of freckles across his cheekbones only added a disarmingly boyish cast to his features. Another charmer, Bet concluded, as she set her drink on the bar. Alarms sounded in her head and an inner voice urged her to get rid of him.
"And you are?"
"Oh! Sorry. Bet," she said, introducing herself by her childhood name.
"Bet." He nodded. "You been in town long?"
She shrugged. "Long enough."
"Long enough to help me, I hope."
Bet inclined her head toward his and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You don't look like a man in need of help."
"But I am!" he protested. "I'm looking for somebody."
The knot in Bet's stomach twisted and she glanced again at his uniform. Blue, not the black of Company security, but who's to say Jeremy wouldn't hire an outsider to track her down? She managed to keep her voice light. "If you're looking for company, thanks, but I'm not interested."
Johns shook his head, extracting a wallet from his jacket pocket. "I'm tracking a fugitive, an escaped con named Riddick." He flipped open the wallet to reveal the holo-image of a dark-complexioned man.
Bet studied the picture. "What'd he do?"
"Murderer. Mean son-of-a-bitch. Been after him for weeks now."
"Sorry, Johns. I can't help you. I haven't seen him."
He slipped the picture back into his pocket. "Keep your eyes open. I'll be around for a while if you see anything. Be careful, though. This guy is bad news. Plays games. Gets off on the killing. A very dangerous man. I'd hate to see your name added to his list of victims."
Johns took his leave, touching hand to brow in a farewell salute. Bet let out a sigh as she watched his retreating figure. Somebody else. Johns was after somebody else. A murderer. A dangerous man, he said. Perhaps, but experience had taught Bet that a respected, upstanding citizen could prove just as dangerous as any felon.
A glimmer in her peripheral vision caught her eye. By the time Bet blinked and glanced into the alcove it was gone. What was that, she wondered? She could have sworn she saw a pair of eyes glistening at her from the dark retreat. A cat? She shrugged. Not likely, but the notion held a peculiar charm. A cat to keep the rats at bay.
She giggled to herself, giddy with relief and exhaustion. Thanks to Johns she could pass another hour in this fine establishment. However unsavory her companions, their presence afforded Bet some small peace of mind. Jeremy wasn't likely to move against her in such a public place.
Bet fingered the small bag of gold coins stashed in her pocket. Barely enough there to book passage on one of the ships that traveled the ghost lanes, ferrying the desperate or down on their luck from one port of call to another. You paid top dollar to avoid the retinal scanners, Bet had discovered, and her cash supply was dwindling fast. It couldn't be helped. Bad luck plagued her, one transport a week overdue, another laid up for repairs.
God, she was tired! Bet ran a hand through her hair and allowed her eyes to drift shut for a moment. Memories of her bed tormented her. Not the lumpy cot that awaited Bet in her rented room, but her real bed. The blissfully soft one with Egyptian cotton sheets and the finest down pillows. The one she shared with Jeremy.
That thought brought her reverie up short. Better a blanket in a corner than luxury at that price. Bet fished the room key from her pocket and set in on the bar next to her drink, a tangible reminder of her reduced status. Bet's expression hardened as her fingers toyed with the key. She wouldn't allow fatigue or regret over lost luxuries to undermine her resolve. No matter what the cost, she'd reclaim her life. Bet lifted her glass in a silent and solitary toast to freedom.
Bet stepped reluctantly into the alley behind the bar, squinting as she peered into the darkness. If someone were lying in wait, this would be the most likely place for him to make his move. A dilapidated dumpster slumped against the opposite wall and an exterior staircase clung to the building's side, both casting deep shadows that afforded the perfect hiding place for any assailant.
"Get moving," Bet whispered, summoning all her will power. Only thirty-four paces separated her from the comparative security of her rented room. She took one tentative step, her eyes scanning back and forth.
"Hey!" A hand touched her elbow.
God-almighty! Someone snuck up on her again! Bet whirled around, reaching in her pocket for the knife she kept ready. With an unsteady hand, she pointed it at the strange man. The knife was small, but sharp and its blade glinted reassuringly in the moonlight.
"Hey," he repeated, raising his hands in a gesture of misunderstood innocence. A silly grin contorted his face and he lurched to one side, almost stumbling over his feet.
A drunk, Bet realized with relief. Emboldened, she brandished the knife in his direction. "Get out of here," she said. "Fuck off, or I'll cut you."
His face assumed an expression of wounded indignation. Alcohol made some men sound stupid, but this one's conversation apparently was reduced to a single monosyllable.
"Hey," he protested, and took a shambling step in Bet's direction.
She braced herself to make good her threat. Before she could act, however, a pair of hands seized the drunk and propelled him head first into the wall. He crumpled and fell motionless onto the ground.
Bet blinked, her bravura evaporating as she stared at the man who had so easily tossed the drunk aside. Shadows fell across his face, disguising his features, but the dark silhouette of his figure was huge and imposing. His stillness and silence unnerved Bet. A palpable sense of menace emanated from the stranger, rooting Bet to the spot and freezing her limbs in the defiant posture with which she'd confronted the drunk.
Bet glanced at her raised arm, surprised to see the knife still clutched in her fist. A few, short minutes ago the blade seemed an intimidating weapon. Now it appeared a puny and pitiable thing, a threat so inconsequential that Bet felt ridiculous, but her uncooperative fingers refused to release their grip. Her hand trembled. The blade danced before her eyes, a damning testament to her fear.
Very slowly, the man shook his head from side to side, the movement telegraphing his disgust.
"You don't wanna hold a shiv like that," he said, skirting the pool of light and slipping behind her. "Wanna hold it like you mean business."
Bet's eyes widened as two muscular arms reached around her from behind. With one hand he peeled her stiff fingers back from the knife's hilt. With the other, he reversed her grip on the weapon, so that the blade pointed toward her forearm, the cutting edge turned out.
"Slice. Don't poke," he murmured, his voice a shiver inducing rumble.
He pressed against her from knee to shoulder, guiding her hand in a series of sweeping curves, a murderous pantomime that drained the strength from her limbs and left her breathless.
"Go for the kill spots. The jugular, here." The fingertips of his left hand brushed the side of her neck.
"Or the brachial artery, here." He touched the crook of her elbow. After a pause he shifted positions, his lips brushing over her hair as they sought her other ear. His voice dropped to a seductive whisper, "Or the femoral artery." A finger traced a line along her inner thigh. "Here."
He released Bet and stepped backward, his voice and manner once again matter-of-fact. "You got that?"
She nodded and turned to face him, the knife still clutched in her hand.
"The kill spots," she repeated weakly. "Slice. Don't poke. Yeah, I got it. Thanks."
Although he stood once again in the shadows, Bet caught a glimpse of a close shaved scalp when he bent his head. "You're very welcome."
His polite response only increased her uneasiness. Both his words and deeds were at odds with the undeniable aura of danger he carried with him; phony chivalry calculated to jack up her anxiety. Why was he toying with her? What did he want?
Bet swallowed, trying to master her nerves. By a tremendous effort, she managed to keep any quiver out of her voice. "Now that I'm both armed AND dangerous, I suppose you'll be leaving me alone."
"You think?" He tilted his head, considering her appeal. "Nah," he said, his voice tinged with regret. "Don't expect that I can leave you alone."
Bet's heart sank. "Listen," she argued. "If you're working for my husband, you should know that he's not a man who can live with loose ends. The money might sound good, but you'll never live to spend it. Jeremy won't tolerate anybody knowing how he had to hire you to drag me back. He'll find somebody bigger and badder to kill you, somebody who won't ask why Jeremy wants you dead."
He laughed. "Ain't nobody bigger and badder than me, but you got it wrong. I don't work for your husband."
"If you don't work for my husband, then what do you want? I'm almost broke. I've got nothing to steal-"
Her voice faltered as he took a step closer. A sliver of moonlight slanted across his face and for the first time Bet got a good look at his features, the dark complexion, the full lips, and the metallic glint of his unnaturally blue eyes. Her stomach flip-flopped. "Oh shit!" She was too shocked to pretend ignorance of his identity. "Riddick!"
He grinned. "In the flesh."
Not a Company man. Not a merc. Merely a fugitive serial killer!
Bet licked her lips. "If I were you, I'd get the hell out of here. People are looking for you. You don't want to do anything that would call attention to yourself, that would arouse the authorities' suspicions."
"You speaking from experience here? Offering me the wisdom gleaned from your time on the run? Just how long you been hiding out from your husband?"
"Three weeks."
"Three weeks!" He gave a low, admiring whistle. "Appreciate the advice. I really do. But my well-being shouldn't be your biggest concern right now."
Bet felt as if a noose were tightening around her. She considered and rejected all her options. Scream? Nobody would come. Run? How far did she think she'd get before he pounced? Fight? Yeah, right. Flailing ineffectually against a seasoned killer would help only if he collapsed on the ground laughing. Beg? Logic declared it her best option, but she pushed the notion away with both hands. Nothing would ever make her relinquish her power again.
"Cut it out," she said, tired of his game.
The suggestion delighted Riddick. "Cut what out? Precisely what do you have in mind?"
"Stop jerking me around." Despite her fear, Bet bristled. She'd experienced enough sarcasm and mockery to last a lifetime.
"You don't have to try so hard to frighten me. You're Riddick, the mad-dog psycho- killer, remember? That's more than enough to leave me shaking in my boots. All your threats, all your games, are just--" She shook her head, searching for the right word. Finally it came to her. "Redundant," she exclaimed. "Overkill, if you'll pardon the phrase."
"Hmmm. Redundant." Riddick savored the word, his expression thoughtful. "Overkill." After a long moment he shrugged and jutted out his lower lip, as if acknowledging her rebuke. "Guess I should just tell you what I want, huh?"
Bet nodded, suddenly unable to trust her voice.
He continued. "With Johns on my ass, ain't no way I'm working for your husband."
Riddick stepped closer, casually ignoring her knife. "Now Johns THINKS I'm planetside, but he doesn't know for sure. He'll be sniffing around, poking into corners, asking questions. Won't be able to get off-planet 'til he decides he's lost the scent and moves on."
Bet frowned, confused. "What's that got to do with me?"
He nodded toward her pocket. "You got a room. Saw the key on the bar next to your drink. Johns will stick his nose in every bar and hidey-hole in town, but he won't go breaking into people's rooms."
Relief coursed through Bet. Riddick wanted her room!
She reached into her pocket and handed him the key. "Here. It's all yours. Take the room with my blessing."
Riddick frowned a reproach. "Tuck myself in nice and cozy while you scamper off to find Johns? Don't think so, sweetheart."
Bet opened her mouth to protest, then realized that no denial could persuade Riddick that that's not exactly what she'd do. "What then?" she asked warily.
"A deal. I stay in your room, with you, outta Johns' way. You give me a place to hide and I will guarantee that nobody grabs you and takes you back to your husband. At least not tonight."
When Bet hesitated, Riddick caught her chin and tilted her face up. "Dark circles under your eyes," he observed. "Not sleeping, running scared, jumping at shadows. Don't you wanna sleep all night, knowing somebody's watching your back?"
It was Bet's turn to look skeptical. "Yeah. I'd sleep like a baby waiting for you to slit my throat."
"Even mad-dog psycho-killers take a night off." His face grew serious. "You think I couldn't kill you here? Take your key? Ditch your body? Forget the happy-crappy Johns told you. Generally I kill people who need killing, not somebody who's trying to help me."
Bet was silent for a long moment. Riddick was right, of course. He'd hardly let her walk away with a polite "No thank you." She was trapped.
"Okay," she conceded. "Okay, we're roomies." She pointed to the stairway across the alley. "Follow me."
"Lights. C'mon. Lights."
Environmentals responded with its usual efficiency. After a pause, an overhead lamp flickered on, illuminating a small, bleak cubical devoid of any ornamentation. Its scuffed and stained walls held only a chair, a bureau, a bed, and a small table. An open door on the opposite wall led to tiny bathroom.
Despite the manager's assurances that the bedding was freshly laundered, a dubious Bet had sniffed the sheets when she arrived. To her relief, the sheets passed muster, but the mattress was dismal, a thin, bumpy pad that allowed not a single, comfortable position. On her first sleepless night in that bed, Bet recalled her last trip with Jeremy, when she had demanded a new suite because the color of the bathroom tiles annoyed her. Bitchiness, the last resort of the trapped and unhappy.
On that first night Bet hadn't imagined that her situation could get much worse, but glancing at Riddick, she amended that gloomy prediction. Here she was, not just hiding out in a hellhole, but sharing her accommodations with an escaped murderer. What was this? Proof that the universe possessed a sense of humor? Payback for years of spoiled self-absorption? If so, the punishment surely exceeded the offense. Hadn't two years with Jeremy done anything to right the balance?
The drawers reeked, so Bet kept her possessions in a leather satchel on top of the bureau. She laid her jacket across the bed, staking a claim to it, then looked up to see Riddick rifling through the satchel.
"What are you doing?"
He ignored her, and continued pawing through her clothes and digging through the contents of all the compartments. From an outside pocket Riddick extracted a bag containing an apple and a few hard rolls.
Bet's jaw dropped as he ripped a roll in half and stuffed it into his mouth. "That's my breakfast!"
Riddick swallowed, and polished the apple against his black tank top. "Not anymore." He lifted the apple to his lips.
Outraged, but helpless, Bet glared at the interloper as he bit into her last piece of fruit. "No, please. I insist. Help yourself. I don't need to eat tomorrow." She turned her back to him and sat on the bed.
"There're two rolls left," he said, shoving the bag back into the satchel. "You can buy more tomorrow."
With what? She had enough money to book passage on a transport and to pay for another four nights lodging. Anything else, anything at all, meant one less night in this room. Assuming, of course, that Riddick kept his word, didn't kill her or didn't steal her money.
Bet glanced over her shoulder at the bureau. Two shower tokens were stacked on it, each one worth five minutes of hot water. On this parched planet, even a bath was a luxury. Planning to indulge in her customary long showers, Bet had purchased a dozen tokens when she first arrived, never dreaming that she'd be forced to wait so long for a ship. A bath. A meal. Small necessities that loomed large when you were forced to choose between them. Maybe she could trade one of the tokens in and get enough credits to buy something to eat.
"What's the story with you and your husband?"
So lost in thought was she, that Riddick's question took a moment to sink in. Bet frowned, confused. "What?"
Riddick had settled back in the chair, resting his feet on the bed. "Your husband," he repeated, his tone conversational. "Why you running?"
Bet hesitated before answering. No one had ever asked her about her relationship with Jeremy. Why would they? She took pains to make sure that everything appeared perfect. Perfect wife. Perfect life. Jeremy would have it no other way. Anything else would reflect badly upon him. A troubled marriage was a sign of failure, of weakness, and any perceived weakness would undermine his position at the Company.
Chapter 2
She shrugged, making light of the query. "It's an old story. I
married the wrong man. It went bad. I left."
"You didn't answer my question." Her facile response placated him not at all. "Most women just walk out on bad marriage. You ran. You're running still."
"Why the question, Riddick? Are you working on some contingency plan? Getting ready to make a deal when Johns catches up with you?"
He laughed softly. "Nah. I'm not worried about that bad boy, but I am curious about you. Why no civilized split? Why couldn't you walk out on your husband?"
"So we're satisfying your morbid curiosity, is that what we're doing?"
He shrugged, unapologetic.
Despite her protests Bet found that she really didn't mind discussing Jeremy. Personal revelations had been impossible for so long. She'd almost forgotten how to speak her mind, how to answer a question truthfully. Incomprehensible that a marriage that started with so much promise could reduce her to such a cautious, helpless state. Incomprehensible, unless you had the singular pleasure of Jeremy Villier's acquaintance.
"Nobody walks out on Jeremy Villiers," she said.
"Villiers?" Riddick sat upright, swinging his feet to the floor. "The Director of Human Resources at the Company? You're married to Jeremy Villiers?"
Human Resources, such a benign phrase, unless you took it literally. How was it possible that a felon, as escaped killer, knew the name of the most low profile, high-power man on the board of directors? What could Riddick possibly know of Jeremy?
Bet nodded, too startled to speak.
Riddick shook his head from side to side, his lips twisting in disgust. "He is one sick fuck," he said at last.
Bet's eyes filled with tears. "That he is."
Their eyes met, and in Riddick's fierce gaze Bet saw a reflection of her loathing for the man she had married. It was a relief to witness such honest emotion, such unabashed hatred. Jeremy's rivals despised him, but they played the game as well as he did, and it was all disguised behind a glib, backslapping bonhomie.
"How did you get mixed up with Jeremy Villiers?"
There was no simple answer to a question that had plagued Bet for most of her marriage. "I was stupid. Or gullible. Or naïve. Take your pick." Bet paused, and studied Riddick's face. Confession was supposed to be good for the soul. Why not unburden herself to a stranger, a man whose sins made her failures pale in comparison?
"Jeremy set out to win me over, and he was as charming and attentive as he needed to be to close the deal. I made the mistake of believing that his courtship face was genuine, that he was as wonderful as he pretended to be."
"Why you?" Riddick was blunt. "Why did Villiers knock himself out to impress you?"
Bet smiled grimly. "Pedigree. The Company preaches family values. Jeremy was in the market for a suitable wife. The right marriage can help consolidate a position of power. My great- grandfather was Harry Stanhope, one of the Company founders. His portrait's still hanging in the foyer of the Company headquarters. Jeremy always rubs peoples' noses in it. He always introduces me as Elisabeth Stanhope Villiers."
"So what went wrong?"
Bet hugged her legs to her chest and rested her chin on her knees. "Jeremy is smart and has a wicked sense of humor. Nobody's ever made me laugh as hard as Jeremy. But after a while, the mask slipped. Once I was a done deal, he didn't need to hide the less pleasant parts of his personality. He's cruel and petty and selfish. I figured out that I'd made a mistake about Jeremy. Then I realized that I'd learned too much about him and the Company. There'd be no civilized divorce. No amicable split. Once you know their dirty secrets, they never let you go."
"What dirty secrets?" Riddick prodded. Bet glanced at his face, suspecting that he knew full well what kind of secrets the Company kept.
"How the Company maintains order on the colonies, how it keeps production up. Quarantines that have nothing to do with any disease. Industrial accidents that are anything but accidental. Carefully staged terrorist incidents. Did you read about the mining disaster on Aragon IV last month? That was no accident. The miners were organizing a strike and the Company decided to make an example of them."
In a subdued voice, she continued her story. "I tried to leave Jeremy just before our first anniversary. Saw an attorney. Over dinner, the day after my appointment, Jeremy asked me if I'd heard the terrible news. I said, "What news?" and he told me that the attorney, his wife and daughter had been killed in a tragic house fire. I knew then that Jeremy would never agree to any divorce and that he'd hurt anybody who tried to help me."
"Your family?"
"My parents are both dead. I had no family to turn to. I got scared. Made nice. Kept up my part of the pretence. Distracted myself with shopping and tennis lessons and dinner parties."
Bet lapsed into a remorseful silence. If she hoped that her confession would lessen her burden of guilt, she was mistaken. Owning up to her weakness proved less cathartic than humiliating. Why had she stayed with Jeremy so damned long? How could she lose herself so utterly?
"Something made you leave." Riddick's voice interrupted her rumination.
She nodded, remembering. Jeremy's behavior had grown more and more erratic, but it wasn't resurgent self-preservation that brought her to her senses.
"A toast," she said, almost embarrassed by the absurdity of the explanation.
"Jeremy hosted a party to celebrate the successful completion of a project. All the board members attended. They were so smug, so self-satisfied, and so certain in their sense of entitlement. Jeremy made a toast, referred to them all as 'princes of industry' and it occurred to me that he was right. We lived like royalty and anybody or anything that threatened our status got crushed."
Bet shook her head. "I looked around the room, and I hated them all, and I hated what I had become. I decided then and there to take back my life, so I packed a bag and left the next day."
"Your husband didn't try to stop you?"
Bet smiled. "I told Jeremy that I was going for a month long stay at the Club Narcisse."
A puzzled frown crossed Riddick's face, so she explained. "The Club Narcisse. It's a spa on New Albion. Jeremy complained that I'm getting a fat ass, so I told him I was going to a fat farm to whip myself back into shape."
Riddick's eyes swept over her body and his frown deepened. "A fat ass? You serious?"
Bet blushed, embarrassed by how pathetically grateful she felt for his incredulous response.
"Jeremy likes a woman with the figure of a fourteen year old boy."
Riddick snorted. "I bet he does!"
The smile they shared was short-lived.
"By now Jeremy's discovered that I never went to New Albion. He'll
try to keep it quiet, bring me back before anybody discovers that I
left him. And if he succeeds, he'll arrange some 'tragic accident' for
me. I'm not going back, Riddick, no matter what."
Riddick stood, stretched, and seized one of the blankets from the bed. Wrapping it over his shoulders, he settled back down in the chair, yawning. "My advice," he said. "One fugitive to another. Get some sleep."
"What do you mean "you forgot"? You stupid cunt! How
could you forget Hannigan's birthday? He's only the C.E.O. for Christ's
sake!"
Her heart pounding, Bet shrank back against the wall. When his anger flared Jeremy burgeoned larger than life, every aspect of him inflated by his rage. He stood taller and talked louder, commanding center stage with a swagger and a sneer. Bet, on the other hand, grew smaller in the face of his wrath. Holding her breath, standing very still, she tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible.
"A simple case of brandy. Was it too much for you to remember to order a simple case of brandy?" Jeremy's voice was piercing; he leaned over Bet, spraying spittle.
"Ogilvie was making deliveries at headquarters today. Cigars for Dietrich. Caviar for Toyoshima. But nothing for me. I asked about the brandy and he said you hadn't placed the order. No gift for Hannigan. How could you make me look so stupid, you stupid bitch? You stupid, stupid bitch!"
Bet covered her face with her hands, her heart sinking with the sickening realization that the tape had been rewound to its inevitable starting place and that the scene would play itself out as it always did.
"No," she cried, feeling the tears seep out between her fingers. "No! No! No! No! No!"
"Wake up." A foot prodded her leg. Bet gasped and recoiled, as her mind incorporated the real-world sensation into the dream. She twisted away from Jeremy's knee, sobbing.
"Wake up." This time a hand shook Bet's shoulder and her eyes flew open. She glanced wildly around the room, disoriented by the sudden shift from a dreaming to a waking state. Where was she? Had Jeremy found her? Or worse, was she in her own bed back home, her escape nothing more than a fantasy, wish fulfillment of the worst kind?
"Elisabeth. Wake up." The calm, deep voice, so unlike Jeremy's shrill tones, jarred Bet back to reality.
Terror had propelled her into an upright position. Her hands still covered her face. Bet slowly pulled them away. The palms glistened in the dim light. She touched her face and found it wet.
Crying in her sleep like a baby! Bet hated, hated, hated the power Jeremy still exercised, even at a distance, to infantilize her, to diminish her. Wiping the tears on her hands, she glared at the incriminating moisture.
"Fuck you, Jeremy," she spat. "I'm done with it."
Now that the nightmare had subsided and her pulse returned to normal, the sweat drying on her body chilled her. Bet drew in a shaky breath and shivered.
Riddick sat silently on the edge of the bed, watching her struggle to compose herself. Finally, he spoke. "Villiers needs killing."
Bet almost laughed. "Jeremy is going to die in his bed, a very old, very powerful man." She shook her head. "Underdogs always say 'What goes around comes around.' Or they put their faith in the notion of justice in the universe, or karma. It's all crap. Charming, puerile crap. Evil triumphs all the time and goodness goes down with scarcely a whimper."
Bet met his eyes, smiling bitterly. "Maybe Jeremy needs killing, but I'd settle for him not killing me."
She ran her fingers through her sweat drenched hair and pulled the sticky tee shirt away from her chest. "Yuck. I'm a mess. If you'll excuse me--" She extracted her limbs from the tangled sheets and reached past Riddick for the two shower tokens.
Retreating into the small bathroom, Bet plugged the tokens into the meter. She stripped and stepped into the shower, sighing with unalloyed pleasure as the hot water struck her body. Maybe she'd go hungry tomorrow, but tonight she'd enjoy the luxury of a shower. She quickly lathered and rinsed, dispensing with the practical necessities, and leaving more time to savor the sensation of hot water tapping its staccato against her face, her back, her breasts.
Bet closed her eyes against the flood flowing over her face, her ears humming with the sound of water rushing from the showerhead. She turned around to direct the spray toward her shoulders. Blinking open her eyes, she spied Riddick standing in the door to the bathroom.
"Riddick!" she shrieked, taking a stumbling step backwards into the corner of the stall. "You scared the shit out of me!"
"Sorry." His grin was anything but.
She whirled around to face the corner and spoke over her shoulder. "What do you want?"
"You got any more of those tokens?"
"No. I don't have any more tokens."
He shrugged and pulled his black tank top over his head. As he reached for his pants, Bet shrieked again. "Just what do you think you're doing?"
"Taking a shower. Course, if you're too shy to share, you might wanna get outta there."
Bet sputtered with indignation, then turned her face away as Riddick stripped off his pants and stepped into the shower. So much for luxuriating in a long, decadent shower. Instead, she found herself huddling self-consciously in a corner of the stall. What a ridiculous, undignified pose!
Riddick rotated the showerhead to adjust the spray to his height. He reached past her for the soap. "Puerile, huh?" Bet could hear the amusement in his voice.
Puerile? Her own word comes back to haunt her. Bet couldn't decide if she were more put out by Riddick's intrusion or her own coy reaction to it. Puerile, she fumed, narrowing her eyes. Childish. Diminished. Not any more!
"Turn around," Bet ordered. "I'll wash your damned back." To her surprise, Riddick obeyed without comment, turning and exposing his broad shoulders and back.
With movements brisk and purposeful, Bet seized the loofa from the soap dish and the soap from Riddick's hand. She applied the loofa to his back, scrubbing furiously.
"Not hurting you, am I?" she asked, noting with satisfaction the pinkish tinge her exertions brought to his skin.
"S'all right," Riddick drawled. "I like it rough."
Bet's hand froze, but beneath her fingers Riddick's shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. Point Riddick. As adept at verbal sparring as he was at physical confrontations. Knives, hands, words. All potent weapons. Her initial urge to smack him with the loofa died and with it went the desire to score points against him.
Riddick was a murderer. He'd made no attempt to deny his culpability, spun no pretty tales to justify his misdeeds. Despite this, Bet felt her fear of him slipping away. Jeremy's rage always bubbled just beneath the surface, an unstoppable, unpredictable force that erupted at the slightest provocation. Bet had no idea what it took to unleash Riddick's murderous impulses, but she suspected that he mastered them better than Jeremy did his dark urges. His was a purposeful, directed violence, not the juvenile lashing out in which Jeremy indulged. Her experience with the volatile Jeremy might lead her astray, of course, but Bet sensed that Riddick wouldn't casually do her harm.
Bet silently returned the loofa to the soapdish. Riddick picked it up, turning it over in his hands, a bemused look on his face.
"What the fuck is this thing?"
"It's a loofa. It exfoliates dry skin."
Riddick smirked. "Guess you packed all the essentials, huh princess?"
Bet winced. Hard to make a credible case that she had abdicated princessdom when she dragged its accoutrements with her, but the loofa was less evidence of faulty values than it was disordered thinking. Had her decision to leave Jeremy been a premeditated one, she would have packed more wisely. As it was, her satchel held items she spontaneously jammed in one frantic, fifteen-minute packing session. Night cream. Her favorite silk pajamas. A copy of "The Collected Poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay." The small crystal water carafe that sat on her bedside table. Superfluous vestiges of her privileged life, each one a tangible reminder of what she left behind.
Riddick ignored her chastened silence. He tossed the loofa from hand to hand, then squeezed until lather squished out between his knuckles.
"Nah," he said, dropping it to the floor. "Hands work better. Turn around."
"What?"
"Turn around. I'm gonna wash your back."
Bet raised her eyes to his face, trying to decipher from his expression what he was up to, but found him unreadable. "That's okay. I can manage."
"C'mon. Quid pro quo."
The Latin startled her. No rule decreed that a murderer must be an ignoramus, but she hadn't anticipated running into a killer familiar with a long dead language. Riddick confounded so many of her expectations that Bet dared not predict what he'd do next.
"All right," she agreed, turning her back to him.
Bet half-expected a retaliatory scouring, payback for her attempted excoriation of his skin, but Riddick's touch was surprisingly light. Gentle, but not tentative, as if learning the landscape of her form, his fingers skimmed over her back and shoulders. Satisfied at last with their exploration, his hands moved up her neck, curling around her head before coming to a halt, the palms resting against her temples. After a moment of perfect stillness, he began to press circles against her brow, pausing now and then to draw his fingers back over her scalp.
Bet closed her eyes, the sensation resurrecting a pleasant memory. Alexi, her favorite masseur at the club, used to do just that whenever she complained of a headache. Better than any analgesic, his skillful hands would leech the pain from her head and shoulders. A grateful Bet always left Alexi an obscenely generous tip.
Would Riddick expect an obscenely generous tip? Bet wondered, her eyes fluttering open. She stiffened, the spell broken.
"Hold still," Riddick breathed, his hands slipping to her shoulders. Pushing his thumbs into the tight muscles, he began to knead the tension from her bunched up shoulders, increasing the pressure as she relaxed against his hands.
A small voice in the back of her mind cautioned Bet against letting her guard down. She ignored it, soothed by the insistent ministrations of his hands. How long since she had relaxed her defenses, opened herself unhesitatingly to any sensation? Life with Jeremy left Bet wary and constrained, holding everything in by force of will. What bliss to abandon the struggle. Tension released its grip by increments as her muscles unknotted and her breathing deepened.
Slick with suds, Riddick's fingers sculpted the curves of her back, probing under the scapula, swooping over and around her hips. Pleasure blossomed beneath his hands, a radiating warmth that sapped her strength. Bet laid her forearms against the tile wall and rested her forehead against an arm, surrendering to a languor that left her weak and boneless.
Her breath caught in her throat as Riddick's hands altered their course. Splaying wide his fingers, each tip pressing hard into her skin, he dragged a wavy line from her shoulders to her hips. There he rotated his hands, his palms cupping her buttocks before he drew his fingers up the length of her back. Again and again he repeated the motion, while Bet clung to the wall to support her quivering legs.
Chapter 3
Riddick's hands fell away and he stepped closer. A wet arm slid around
Bet's waist and a large hand spanned her belly from hipbone to hipbone,
pulling her tight against him. Fingers brushed the back of her neck
and lifted her heavy, wet hair. Twining the hair around his fist, he
tilted her head sideways to expose the nape of her neck. Warm breath
tickled her skin.
Bet held her breath, anticipating the soft caress of his lips against her skin. Instead, slowly, deliberately, he scraped his chin along the side of her neck from earlobe to nape. Bet gasped, goose-bumps prickling her shoulders and arms. At her cry, his mouth descended upon her skin, the tongue flicking against the path laid out by his chin.
Bet's head lolled to one side as his lips laid claim to her neck and throat. Without conscious intent, she matched her breaths to the tempo of Riddick's inhalations and exhalations, their chests rising and falling in harmony. Even her pulse, thundering in her ear, sought to conform itself to the rhythm of Riddick's heart. She leaned heavily against him, heartbeat echoing heartbeat, breath echoing breath, linked to Riddick as she'd never once been linked to Jeremy.
Jeremy. A frown creased Bet's brow. For the past two years, Jeremy had been the only man to touch her so intimately. Jeremy's hands, Jeremy's mouth, moving possessively over her body. She swallowed hard, pushing away the memory, but the damage was done.
Bet braced her hands against the shower wall. "Stop," she cried, shuddering. "Stop it!" Instantly, Riddick released her, relinquishing his hold without protest.
The trembling that gripped Bet left her scarcely able to stand, but she managed to turn around to face Riddick. His hands lay motionless at his side. He made no attempt to reach out to her, but in the narrow shower stall he stood so close that her nipples grazed his ribs.
Once again, Bet found that she couldn't read his expression. Whatever he felt about her rebuff, she saw neither pleading nor menace in his eyes. No fear of rejection. No threat of force. He merely waited for her to explain herself.
"I need--" She stumbled over the words. "I need to see your face-- to know it's you." The urgency of this need stunned Bet. She hadn't allowed herself to dwell upon how much she dreaded ever again feeling Jeremy's hands touching her.
Her throat ached. For one horrible moment, Bet feared that she might burst into tears, but she swallowed again, willing away the intrusive memories of her husband.
"It's all right," Riddick said quietly. "Take your time."
Bet smiled, grateful for his understanding. This man was not Jeremy, she reminded herself, studying his face. Nothing about him reminded her of her husband. After a moment's hesitation, Bet began her own exploration of Riddick's body.
Hands confirmed what eyes revealed. Firm, smooth skin greeted her fingers as they brushed across his wide chest, not the blond thatch that marked Jeremy's. Bet ran her palms over Riddick's shoulders and arms, admiring the sheer beauty of his well-defined musculature. Despite the best efforts of his personal trainer, Jeremy had never been able to add more than a few kilos to his wiry frame.
Bet startled as the water cut off, but when she glanced at Riddick, he indicated no desire to vacate the shower. Standing still and silent, he awaited her next move. Water beaded his lashes and trickled down over his temples. With one finger, Bet traced its course from temple, across cheek, to jaw.
It was a good face, Bet decided, brushing a fingertip over his lips. Arrestingly attractive, with none of the pretty-boy features she'd come to distrust. Jeremy liked to call his thin, high- cheekboned face "aristocratic." If Jeremy possessed the narrow visage of an aristocrat, then Riddick's broad nose and full lips cast him in a much meaner estate. Yet compared to Riddick, Jeremy's face was vin ordinaire, bland, banal and boyish. Riddick's brutally handsome countenance conveyed a vigor and virility that lesser men could only envy.
Bet's fingers twitched with eagerness as she seized Riddick's shaved head and pulled it to her lips. Unresisting, he came, rotating his crown so that the bristles raked over her cheek and mouth. Whisker-burn, that's what her grandfather called it. As a child, she would have shrieked and wriggled away, but as a woman she welcomed its stinging caress. With a stunned half-smile, Bet lifted a finger to her lips, gently touching her still tingling skin.
Nerve endings, long dormant, awoke and clamored for sensation. Touch, smell, taste, all her senses cried out for stimulation. Bet pressed her palm against Riddick's chin, angling back his head and exposing his throat. She nuzzled his neck, tasting the damp, warm skin and breathing in his scent. Inhaling deeply, Bet tried to fix in her memory the heady fragrance, redolent of crushed berries, or the sticky sap that clung to her fingers after a day in the woods. It was intoxicating, as essential a part of the man as the aura of strength and danger he wore.
Jeremy always reeked of artifice. Impossible to stand close to him without catching a whiff of "Le Roi," that odd but spectacularly expensive blend of musk and citron with which he doused himself.
Jeremy again. Would memories of her husband torment her forever? Would she never be free of him?
"Make him go away," she groaned. It was a plea to the universe, as much as to her own stubborn subconscious, but Riddick responded as if it were directed at him.
"Yeah, I can do that," he said with a slow smile.
Good God, what arrogance! Indignation flickered, then died, as Riddick's hands began to move across her body. Fingers traced the outline of her lips and skimmed over her throat before slipping down to cradle her breast. Riddick might be arrogant, Bet conceded, shuddering as his thumb brushed over a nipple, but overweening hubris played no part in his self-estimation. He was simply a man supremely confident in his skills.
A gentle nip to that sensitive spot behind her ear elicited another shudder and Bet swayed before clutching at Riddick's waist.
Bet wanted nothing more than to banish Jeremy from her thoughts, to erase forever the sensations he had imprinted on her body. His was an unclean spirit that haunted her dreams and intruded relentlessly into her thoughts. Perhaps Riddick would help her to exorcise her husband's specter. Already Bet sensed a metamorphosis; an indelible transmutation of her sensory fibers, as every nerve ending Riddick touched was reborn.
"Oh God," Bet breathed, swept away by the feelings his touch engendered. Holding her breath, Bet slid her hands up Riddick's torso. She reached once again for his head, irresistibly drawn to his shaved crown. The stubble rasped along her fingertips as she pressed against the grain, a delicious friction that ignited her senses. She pulled back her hand and stared at her palm, astounded by the feeling.
Desperation lent urgency to her actions. She wanted to feel Riddick everywhere, every centimeter of her body invigorated, scrubbed clean by that sandpaper kiss.
"Yes," she cried, curling her hands around his head and pulling it toward her mouth.
"Yes." Bet's fingernails dug into his scalp as she tugged, urging him to drag his head lower, down her neck, across her breasts. Bet fell back against the tiled wall as Riddick did her bidding, sweeping his head from side to side as it descended her body.
With stunning abruptness, Riddick pivoted his head to the side, seized her right wrist, and hoisted Bet over his shoulder. The movement knocked the breath from her, and Bet barely managed to inhale again before he stepped sideways out of the shower and dumped her across the bed.
Lulled into complacency by Riddick's ready acquiescence to her demands, Bet was staggered by the speed and ease with which he reversed their roles. No longer did she command events to gratify her needs, directing his head here, urging his touch there. Instead, she was deposited breathless and shaken on her bed, while Riddick stood over her, his face inscrutable.
For one heart-stopping moment Bet imagined that this was the face his victims saw before he made his move, a face at once dispassionate and calculating. Did they feel as she did now, frozen in time and place, while Riddick weighed his options and decided his course of action?
This stillness, this sense of time suspended, was illusory. Scarcely had Bet drawn a second breath before Riddick moved. She blinked. One second Riddick was standing at the side of the bed, the next, he straddled her hips, capturing both her hands in one large fist.
"Hmmm--" The impossibly drawn out sound raised the hairs on the back of Bet's neck.
Riddick tilted his head to one side, a speculative gleam in his eye. The smile that finally crossed his face would have assuaged her anxiety more if Bet were certain that it signaled good will and not triumph.
The smile lingered as his hand began a perambulation of her body, trailing over arms, breasts and belly before returning to her face.
"Close your eyes," he murmured, pressing with gentle insistence against her lids. His weight shifted as he leaned forward and kissed each eye, rewarding her for her compliance, Bet suspected.
"Hold still."
He released her hands so that she was no longer physically constrained, but Bet remained immobile, a voluntary prisoner to his will.
Odd that she would cede control to Riddick in such a fashion, she reflected. Jeremy had co-opted the power in their marriage, bullying her into obedience. Bet reclaimed that power when she left him, and she swore she'd never relinquish it again. But it occurred to her now that if the power truly were hers, she could choose to give it away, and then to take it back. It was hers absolutely, to do with as she pleased, and it pleased her now to comply with Riddick's instructions.
Bet slipped obediently, but regretfully, into darkness. Submission cost her the sight of Riddick's face as he bent over her, his lips slightly parted, his beautiful, liquid pewter eyes glistening in the dim light. Submission always exacted a price, but perhaps the benefits would outweigh the losses. Riddick knew, didn't he, from his years in the dark, how the other senses flowered in response to visual deprivation, how the body reordered perception in a world grown suddenly pitch black?
A glorious torment, to lie motionless and blind, awaiting Riddick's touch. Bet's chest rose and fell, her breathing rapid and shallow. Impossible to draw enough air into her lungs. Every molecule of her body hummed with anticipation. Her skin felt charged with electricity, as if it could shock on contact.
There. At last. Bet sighed with pleasure as Riddick's hands once again found her face, skimming lightly over her eyes and nose, teasing apart her lips, sliding along the edge of her teeth. Impulsively, Bet closed her lips around the tip, sucking the digit into her mouth and trapping it between tongue and palate. She bit Riddick's knuckle, holding his finger fast in its warm, moist prison.
"Unh-unh-unh," he warned, laughter in his voice, and dragged his finger out between her clenched teeth.
Why did he chide her? Had he told her not to bite?
A recalcitrant expression crossed her face. Either that, or Riddick possessed an unsuspected talent for mind reading.
"Elisabeth," he said slowly, the word a reproach.
Bet smiled, a mutinous smile that betrayed not a hint of contrition.
All thoughts of defiance vanished as his mouth descended upon hers. He kissed first the corner of her mouth. Teeth gently caught her lower lip, nibbling at it and drawing it slowly into his mouth. The kiss deepened. The tip of his tongue slid along the inside of her upper lip before swirling over the tip of Bet's tongue. Riddick sucked, imprisoning her tongue as she had imprisoned his finger, but unlike Riddick, Bet made no attempt to escape.
Riddick clenched his hands in her hair, tilting her face back and forth while he rained kisses on her cheeks, eyes and temples. His teeth sketched a chain of bites along her jaw from chin to ear. Latching on to that ticklish spot beneath her ear, Riddick flicked his tongue against the hypersensitive skin. Forming a seal with his lips, he sucked hard. Capillaries exploded with a slight sting.
That will leave a mark, Bet noted with satisfaction.
Riddick fingered the spot, then pressed her chin up, urging her to bare her throat to his attentions. From jaw to collarbone, the flats of his hands stroked up and down, and finally came to a rest spanning the slender column of her neck.
A disquieting pause. As the moment stretched on, intellect waged war on intuition. Was it folly to lie still, pliant and trusting, while a murderer wrapped his hands around her throat? No sooner did the doubt arise than Bet dashed it, a fear stillborn. The inner voice that guided her during her perilous marriage assured her now that Riddick meant her no harm.
Not fear, but curiosity, led Bet to open her eyes and look at Riddick's face. Eyes closed, forehead furrowed, with an adorable crinkle between his drawn brows, he looked for a moment like a little boy lost in thought. His lips moved ever so slightly, keeping time with some unheard rhythm.
With a start, Bet realized what he was doing. His fingers rested below her jaw, over her carotid artery. As her pulse reverberated through his fingertips, Riddick touched his lips together in time with her heartbeat. No one knew better than Riddick how fragile a thing a human is, how tenuous and temporary his or her grip on life. Yet here, beneath his hands, her steady pulse attested to her vitality, to the life force within her.
A rush of tears filled Bet's eyes. She hadn't given a thought to how Riddick lived his life, physically and emotionally isolated from other humans. Self-sufficient. Solitary. The look of wonder on his face reflected how extraordinary, how exceptional this moment was.
The ominous silence signified nothing. Bet saw not a murderer reverting to type, not a monster rising true to form, but a man marveling at his connection, however transitory, with another living being. Indecent to intrude at such an unguarded moment. She closed her eyes again before Riddick caught her spying on him.
The bed creaked when he stretched out next to Bet, sliding into a position that allowed his hands free range over her body. Fingers played along her collarbone, slipping into the half-moon notch that marked its center, before trailing down between her breasts to her belly. Where fingers led mouth followed. Swirling into the hollow at the base of her throat, his tongue began its journey. A similar act marked its conclusion, as his tongue delved into her navel. Perfect symmetry, Bet thought, with a smile.
As Riddick kissed her mouth again, his fingertips sketched circles on her belly. With exquisite slowness, his curved fingers scratched lightly over her skin, venturing near, but never quite touching the tangle of curls covering her mons.
Did Riddick intend to tease her into madness?
An unholy fire kindled in Bet's breasts, a wildly pulsating flame that seared a path from her nipples to her groin. A bone-deep trembling seized Bet as her body opened itself to the flood of sensations his touch engendered.
She almost sobbed with gratitude when Riddick's mouth descended upon her breast, his tongue flicking against the aureole. Lips toyed with her nipple, brushing over the rigid nub. Good, but Bet preferred a more intense stimulation. She arched her back and filled her lungs with air, swelling her breasts, encouraging his onslaught.
Riddick responded to her silent importuning. Capturing the nipple between his teeth, he bit, lightly at first, and then harder as a groan signaled her pleasure. He rolled her other nipple between thumb and forefinger, gently twisting and elongating the tip.
His touch shattered her resolve and undermined her compliance. Memory and thought, all her cognitive processes, unraveled under the demands of her body to see, touch and taste Riddick. When his hand finally slipped between her legs, his fingers probing her vulva, the battle was lost.
Defiant at last, Bet's eyes flew open and she reached for Riddick, her nails digging into his skin as she clutched his shoulders. He lifted his head and met her eyes.
"About time," he said, his fingers still gliding along the slick and swollen folds.
His meaning at first eluded Bet. Difficult to think when his hand moved with such lazy assurance over the most intimate parts of her body. So scattered were her thoughts that speech required a Herculean effort.
"What?"
"About time," he repeated, a devilish gleam in his eye.
Understanding dawned. "You were goading me into responding?" she sputtered, aghast at how she'd misunderstood him. He wasn't seeking her submission; he was pushing her to assert herself!
"Always do what you're told?" he asked, continuing his relentless stimulation of her sex. Instead of answering, Bet gasped as his fingertip brushed over her clit. Riddick raised his brows, his expression guileless.
It wasn't fair. Riddick neatly circumvented any argument. Who could quarrel with a man whose hands were pushing her closer and closer to a carnal frenzy?
"You're a shit, Riddick," Bet said, her head falling back on the bed.
Smiling, he lowered his head and nuzzled her throat. He nibbled and licked a line from collarbone to ear, then seized her lobe between his teeth.
"Hmmm," he rumbled against her ear, the vibrations penetrating to the bone. "I ain't no white knight."
True enough, but Bet had had her fill of fairy tales. There was no such thing as a Prince Charming. No happily ever afters. No white knight to ride gallantly to the rescue of a lady fair. The lady fair had better learn to fight her own battles. And if she occasionally found comfort in the arms of a dangerous and desirable dark knight, so much the better.
She reached for Riddick and drew his face toward hers. "And I'm no princess."
The tips of their tongues fluttered against each other as they shared their first real kiss. No longer constrained by any inhibitions, Bet kissed Riddick with eager abandon, nibbling on his lips and drawing his tongue into her mouth. She shamelessly opened her legs to Riddick's hand.
It had been so long since she'd found any joy in physical intimacy. She had forgotten how good it felt to wallow in pleasure, to devolve from a rational, self-possessed woman to a creature driven by instinct and desire.
A small part of her mind wondered why he and she lingered so long over their foreplay. She would expect that a man in Riddick's situation would bowl her over in his haste to get to the sex. That he'd demonstrate more ardor than finesse, a gourmand's approach to sex rather than a gourmet's. But Riddick seemed content with a leisurely progression and it suited her as well.
Bet rocked her pelvis against Riddick's hand. A filament, pulling tighter and tighter, seemed to connect her breasts and her groin. Riddick had instructed Bet about the kill spots. He now demonstrated an equal proficiency at identifying the pleasure spots. With unerring precision his finger circled round and round her swollen clit, while his mouth swooped down on a hypersensitive nipple.
Bet held fast to his head and drew in a deep, shuddering breath as an orgasm crashed down on her with the suddenness and force of a tidal wave. A guttural groan, barely recognizable as her own voice, was torn from her throat. She bucked against his hand and lifted her hips from the bed, gasping with surprise.
It couldn't be that easy! Bet had come to look upon orgasm as an act of will, not a spontaneous event. She endured sex with Jeremy by pretending herself elsewhere. A climax, which Jeremy's ego demanded, could be attained only by a strategic disassociation coupled with a distracting fantasy. Or, failing that, she faked it.
No need to fake it now. No need to grit her teeth and suffer the frustrating advance and retreat of sensation as she painfully inched her way toward orgasm. Bet shook her head from side to side, laughing with amazement.
Written by Susy Strom