Collision Course
2
Brian stood silently in the shadows of the stairwell, nearly invisible amongst the throng. From this vantage point, he could scan the room where Hollywood's elite partied. The movers and the shakers of the movie industry were gathered together in yet another elaborate bash, the purpose of which he couldn't remember. He had been to so many of these high society soirees in the last few months that they had all begun to blend together in his mind. The same people over and over again.
The stars, people so physically perfect and with such sparkle, that they looked ethereal -- until they let loose a little. A few drinks, some drugs, raunchy conversation, or maybe it was just the party atmosphere in general that seemed to bring out the flawed human being in them. A few actually became more attractive, but the vast majority, once their practiced masks slipped, turned morose, fearful, depressed, vindictive, and ugly.
The bottom feeders were always there too; normal looking people that clung to the heavenly bodies that made up Tinseltown's galaxy. They fawned on the stars, basking in the reflected light. Agents, publicists, fashion consultants, groupies, whatever they called themselves, they circled the glittering, beautiful people like the planets circled the sun.
Then there were the moguls, the true power in town. Brian had often wondered if the hard faces and cold eyes came with the power, or if the power to make and destroy careers caused a hardening of the soul. For these people were like no others that he had ever seen. They could crush a starlet as easily and as carelessly as someone else might crush a cockroach, or, if the mood struck them, they could ignite a career with a single role in an 'A' list flick.
Brian hated all the phony people at these parties, but he hated the studio execs the most. He hated their superior attitudes and the callous way they --
"There you are, darling," said a soft voice.
Brian looked down at the petite brunette who had appeared at his side.
"We can't have you hiding away here," Sylvia said with a smile as she tugged on his arm. "You're supposed to be my escort." She flashed her famous smile at him as she led him toward the crowd. "I intend to get my money's worth."
"Not escort," he told her for the hundredth time. "Security."
"Well, then," she mocked, "secure me." She arched her dark brows and batted her cobalt eyes up at him in invitation.
He shook his head at her, but allowed her to twine her arm through his and drag him toward a small group of her friends.
This is the part he hated; when his clients showed him off to their friends, as if he were some sort of expensive jewelry adorning their arms.
He made good money doing this, guarding/escorting anyone who would pay the exorbitant price his employer demanded for his time. It was easy work, and as he felt her small hand stroking the curve of his ass, he realized the perks couldn't be beat.
Moving with this high-class crowd was night and day away from where he had been a year ago, a lifetime ago. As she introduced him around he let his mind wander backward in time, back to when ...
===
Machines surrounded the hospital bed, beeping softly. Tiny red lights and small green screens glowed dimly in the harsh glare cast by the fluorescent lights of the ICU ward. Tubes and wires sprouted from the machines. They snaked their way toward the gravely wounded man on the bed, monitoring his every breath and heartbeat.
He moved closer to the bed. As he looked downward, Brian was surprised at how small and fragile Vince's big frame looked in the hospital bed. Maybe it was because of the angle. Brian was used to looking right into Vince's angry, hate filled eyes. Maybe it was because of the thin white sheet that covered the tattooed and rangy body. Maybe it was because the face was relaxed in sleep instead of twisted into a sulky, unhappy expression. Whatever the reason, Brian felt pity and compassion fill him.
Vince would live, or so the doctors claimed. It had been close, very, very close. For days Vince's life had hung, balancing on the edge. The massive loss of blood, the destruction of his left kidney, and the perforated bowel had been the worst of it.
Vince had survived ten operations in the past two weeks. Now the doctors claimed that as long as the infections could be kept under control, as long as peritonitis didn't set in, that Vince would recover fully.
"You are one lucky son-of-a-bitch," Brian said softly.
"And yer a fuckin' asshole," Vince muttered back.
Brian felt a relieved smile spread across his face. "Glad to see you're feeling more like yourself."
Vince's bloodshot and swollen eyes cracked open just the tiniest bit before the heavy lids dropped back into place. "Get the fuck out," he rasped through his chapped lips. "I ain't got nothin' to say to no fuckin' cop." Vince groaned as he turned his head away.
"Then you're safe with me," Brian said, his voice heavy with irony. "I got busted. They took away my badge."
Slowly, Vince's head turned back in Brian's direction. Brian felt himself being studied and after a moment Vince spoke again, "Good."
Sadness filled Brian at Vince's reaction. He shouldn't be surprised. After all, he had told lie after lie and he *had* been undercover, trying to make an arrest. He *had* bedded the girl this man had been pining over for years. What had he really expected from Vince? A little sympathy? A declaration of friendship? A --
"Thank you," Vince whispered so softly that Brian wasn't sure he heard him correctly. "Thanks for getting me off that truck."
"You're welcome, man," Brian said through the lump that had formed in this throat. He reached down, intending to squeeze the callused hand, but never made contact.
"Get away from him you snake!" snarled a female voice from the foot of the bed. "I can't believe that even you have the nerve to show up here. Not after everything you've done."
She stood there gripping the foot rail and glaring at him. Her black eyes snapped, her perfect features twisted in hate, even her hair seemed to stand up and crackle with her rage.
"Mia, I --"
"Oh, spare me more of your lies. And leave him alone. As if his injuries weren't enough, you pigs haven't given him five minutes of rest." Her face could have been carved from ice, so cold was her expression. "He doesn't know anything about the hijackings. He wasn't involved. He doesn't know where Dom is. He doesn't --"
"Wait, Mia," Brian held up a hand to stop her. "I'm not --"
"Save it for the next woman you screw over and," she gritted her teeth and hissed through them. "Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. Here."
Brian hung his head in guilt as he moved away from Vince's bed and left the ICU ward. Yeah, he was guilty all right. Not of narcing the team out, he hadn't done that, in fact he had even helped some of the evidence conveniently disappear.
Vince was alive because of Brian. Vince would most likely go free when he was recovered enough -- because of Brian and because of a truck driver that didn't seem to want to come forward. Brian had noted the license plate of the last big rig the team had tried to take. It was his job and he had done it instinctively, but when he had been told that the truck couldn't be located, he had conveniently forgotten the plate number. Who was he to buck fate? If the only other witness to the crime didn't want to talk, why should he?
His superiors had ranted and raved at him. They had promised and cajoled. They had threatened and then ultimately made good their threat of busting him off the force. Through it all, he had remained silent about the hijackings. He had told them the truth about Tran's murder of Jesse. He had confessed to chasing the motorcycle down and shooting the Chinese thug. But of the team, of the hijackings, of Dominic, he had remained stubbornly silent.
No, Brian didn't feel guilty about any of that. He had done what he could to protect them, and he was suffering for it. No, what Brian knew he was guilty of was Mia.
She was the only regret he had. He had used her, shamelessly. He had initially used her as an excuse to hang out near Toretto's deli. He had used her as a way to gain entry into the tight-knit group. Then, after accomplishing that, he had used her as a substitute.
He had stroked her caramel skin, kissed her full lips, looked down into her dark eyes, and whispered words of love -- all the while pretending she was someone else. He had stroked her soft flesh and wished it were rougher. He had nuzzled against her silky hair and wished it were short bristles. He had felt her long limbs wrap around him and wished they were thicker, more powerful. He had looked deeply into her eyes and had reveled in the fact that they were a perfect match to his fantasy lover's. He had driven into her slick opening and had wished it were tighter, hotter. He had pounded into her and then had bitten his own lip to keep from calling out her brother's name when he came.
Yes, he had used her badly, but at the time, he hadn't cared. He had needed to slake his lust on someone, either that or he'd have jumped Dom from behind. And Mia had been willing, she had enjoyed it as much as he had, he was sure she had.
It was only now, as all his lies were coming to the surface, that she was beginning to hate him. She thought he had used her as a way to get to the team, which was true, but she had know idea that he had also used her for other far more personal reasons.
===
"Don't tell me *she's* the reason you were unavailable tonight," whispered a deep voice in his ear.
Brian pulled himself back to the here and now with an effort and turned to face the silver haired gentleman standing so closely next to him.
"Yeah, sorry, Mr. Drake," Brian said softly so that Sylvia couldn't overhear. "The company had already assigned me to her before they got your request."
"You should quit, Brian. They don't take proper care of you, letting that ... that casting-couch, no-talent bitch get her claws --"
"She's been a model of good behavior unlike *some* people I've worked for in the past," Brian said with a wide smile as he looked down into the world famous hazel eyes of Tomas Drake.
The man snorted and managed to make even that act look and sound elegant. "You should work for me exclusively. You know I would take good care of you, don't you?"
"I know, Mr. Dra--"
"Tomas, Tomas. How many times must I tell you? Call me Tomas."
"Tomas Drake!" Sylvia screeched as she caught sight of the man talking with Brian. "Oh, Mr. Drake, I'm such a fan of yours!" She elbowed Brian aside and began to chatter excitedly at the well-known actor/director/producer/star-maker.
Brian caught the look of revulsion in Tomas' hazel eyes and wasn't surprised when two of Mr. Drake's people materialized from out of thin air and began to extricate the powerful man from Sylvia's clutches.
"Humph." She stamped her expensively shod foot in agitation and directed an accusing look at Brian. "He talked to you, but couldn't give me the time of day. Just how *well* do you *know* him?"
Brian shrugged and smiled. God he was sick of Hollywood!
.