Fear Itself

Despite all of my protests and inventive excuses, I still found myself walking into a restaurant promptly at 12:55 PM, wearing an ungodly outfit Chandler insisted I wear. It was garish and revealing, but he insisted that this was proper and acceptable attire for a casual lunch date with the Commander, especially because I was supposed to be a pop sensation. I was allowed, and even expected, to look like a total slag.

He had shown up just moments after the broadcast aired, bustling through the front door carrying an arsenal of garment bags and suitcases. It was a grueling three hours of trying on several outfits, staring at my own reflection with disgust as Chandler poked and prodded me and Dean evaluated whether or not I was “showing enough skin.”

“Not enough,” both men agreed upon seeing what the original choice of clothing looked like: something Chandler called a “micro-mini” skirt. He had laughed when I settled it on my hips and proceeded to tug it up to my belly button. Out of instinct, I squirmed and tugged the skirt downward.

“Chandler, my bum’s going to fall clear out of this thing,” I worried, looking to him with a concerned frown.

“Exactly. That’s the point,” he explained through soft laughter. I was supposed to be showing off my assets. After all, I was meeting the Commander of Earth. No matter how dodgy I thought this sounded, Chandler still asserted that I wasn’t just a lady. I was a pop star, and the Commander would expect clothes in the absolute height of fashion, which apparently meant I had to walk around in high-waisted shorts (with my bum quite literally hanging out of them), a lime green bustier top, and a fuchsia blazer without any buttons, leaving a good stretch of skin along my midriff exposed.

The cold air stung at that very same stretch as Dean and I walked the few feet from the car, into the restaurant. He had his arm around tightly around my waist, so I couldn’t trip in the four-and-a-half inch heels he had put me in. Granted, they looked like a decadent pair of black leather sneakers with a padded collar around my ankles and everything. The only thing different was the shiny, purple heel. Despite the fact that everyone knew I could barely walk in heels, it was agreed that no sane elite woman would walk around in flat shoes unless she was exercising or pregnant, and I was neither. I had to walk in heels, and I needed to act like I wasn’t deathly terrified of breaking my ankle in the process. I couldn’t hang onto Dean for balance, even if I wanted to.

Regardless of our real relationship, Dean needed to be absolutely and unquestionably in charge of me. Chandler voiced his disapproval of typical married behavior, but he instructed me nevertheless. If I could not handle myself in public, or if Dean could not “keep me on a tight leash,” it would reflect badly on his reputation. I had to sit up straight, and I had to smile. I would speak when spoken to, and when spoken to, I would ooze all the confidence and charisma of an independent woman but give all credit to my husband, just as the Commander would approve of.

If the walking wasn’t difficult enough, I had to put on an entirely different persona. I wasn’t Thalia Giroux, not even remotely close. I was Monodrama. I wasn’t sweet, wasn’t a “good girl.” I was charming, and sexy, and desirable. I wasn’t blonde; I had a short brown wig cut in a bob, and my blue eyes were hidden behind thick, black, circular sunglasses that I was not to remove under any circumstances. Clint had already seen me up close and personal once. The less he could see of me, the better.

The second we got inside, Dean and I were ushered off around a bend and deeper into the building, into a room with a private corner booth. My heart was pounding in my chest, thought maybe I was sweating, but I couldn’t even ask Dean for reassurance because to need it showed insecurity. Monodrama was not insecure. Monodrama was confident and perhaps even a little bit full of herself. She knew she was talented, knew just how beautiful she was, and she made sure everyone else knew as well.

Dim lighting illuminated booths of people dressed in expensive clothes, many I assumed were important government figures or very important people in general. I straightened my posture and refined my walk into a confident sort of strut, walking tall alongside Dean and glancing around. I inched just a bit closer to my husband, so every single head that turned our way knew that we were together. Slowly appearing in my line of vision was Commander Kennedy. He sat alone in a booth in the far back of the room, away from everyone else. The table he sat at was empty. Save for a glass of wine in front of him and the smoldering cigarette he mashed into a small, glass tray just as he stood to meet us in the aisle, immediately reaching to shake Dean’s hand.

“Good to see you, Cassidy,” he greeted with his shoulders back and his chin held high, even though he was shorter than both Dean and me. He seemed about as tall as Avery, if not just a smidgen taller. He extended his hand out to Dean, and the two joined in a firm, hearty handshake.

“You too, mate,” Dean told him with a relaxed, almost playful, kind of grin. Kennedy gave him a nod and turned to me with a rather direct gaze.

“And you must be the misses.” His eyes were nearly black, even glistening under the light swinging above us. “You’re even lovelier now that I get to see you up close,” he commented with his eyebrows raised high, eyes gleaming as he extended his hand toward me.

“Why thank you, Commander,” I replied, purposely keeping my voice low, soft, but audible. Ladies never caused a scene, Chandler said. “It’s been my dream ever since I was a child that I would get to meet somebody of your stature. This is really a dream come true for me, sir.”

A grin flashed across his face, and his laughter echoed through the room. “Polite, too,” Kennedy commented, shaking his head a little, perhaps in disbelief as his eyes moved up and down my body. “You’re tall.” No shit, I thought to myself. “How tall exactly?”

“Five feet, ten inches,” I replied with a tiny smile, doing my best to look pleasant and composed, even though my insides were practically bursting with fear in every corner.

Kennedy did nothing but nod, and we stayed there standing for a moment as he seemed to space out a little. I didn’t mind much. It gave me time to look him over and assess the threat he may have posed. Alone, he didn’t seem like much. A butterfly-shaped rash spread across the bridge of his nose, over his cheeks, and under his eyes in little red blotches.

Dean’s hand tightened on my waist a little, squeezing firmly as we stood there. Kennedy came to after a moment of staring at me, and he offered for us to sit with him. It wasn’t until I slid into the booth that my eyes caught three figures seated at a table just feet away. They weren’t close enough to look like they were joining us, but they were close enough to watch. All were dressed in black with guns holstered to their legs.

Everyone in the restaurant knew exactly who they were and why they were there. Even I knew they were watching Dean and I like hawks because they were paid to keep Kennedy safe. I heard Dean and Kennedy exchanging idle prattle, but the noise was merely fading into the background. I had to pull my eyes away the cold steel on their upper thighs and turn back to our company, the Commander himself, who had turned to me and asked, “So, what are your plans now that you two are married?”

Turning the charisma back on was an instant response. I flashed a confident, bright smile and shrugged. “What any good wife would do, really,” I replied, then glanced up at Dean to look at him rather adoringly. His arm never left my waist. I turned back to the Commander and continued, “I’m going to retire from the music industry and start staying at home more, and, you know, get started on our family together.”

Kennedy nodded. “How many kids do you want?” he asked, pausing to sip from his wine. Sitting closer to him, his fingertips were tinged blue.

“A lot,” I explained with a chuckled hum. “Something like… oh, I don’t know, eleven.”

“Eleven?” Dean asked, breaking from his wine glass to look at me in disbelief.

I simply nodded. “Of course, darling.” I leaned into him just enough to look affectionate but not enough to look clingy. Chandler had explained to me that there was a very fine line between the two, but it was expected for me to mostly keep my hands to myself. “I want eleven kids, all little boys who look just like you.”

“That’s a lot of kids,” Kennedy commented with a laugh. Dean joined in; Kennedy couldn’t tell that his laughter was forced and faked, but I could. I wondered if perhaps I was just used to Dean’s behavior or if Kennedy was truly abysmal at reading people.

“Well, my husband’s not the one who has to take care of them,” I said, a small smile on my face as my hand touched Dean’s chest for only a moment. “He’ll never have to lift a finger in his home with me around.”

“You are actually the perfect wife,” Clint scoffed with soft, incredulous laughter echoing in his tone. “Cassidy, where the hell did you find her?”

“Scotland,” Dean answered. “And Chandler found her, actually, so I’ve got him to thank.”

“You mean, she’s one of Chandler’s girls?” Clint asked, pointing his index at me while staring at Dean with obvious surprise. His eyebrows were raised and mouth slightly agape as Dean gave him a nod. “You must be fantastic if you’re a Chandler Jacques find. Not one of his girls has been unsuccessful, ever. All of them have perfect voices for auto-tune.” The way he said Chandler’s name rubbed me the wrong way. I had to keep my face from scrunching up at how he emphasized the ‘r’ at the end of his first name and how hard he pronounced the ‘j.’ It almost sounded like was saying the word ‘jocks.’

“Man,” Clint huffed. His voice was heavy with disappointment now. “I can’t believe you’re one of Chandler’s pop proteges, and I haven’t heard you sing yet.” He shook his head. “I mean, they’ve all been great, haven’t they, Cassidy?”

“That they have,” Dean agreed with a solemn nod, closing his eyes for a moment as if they were having a moment of silence for my dying career.

Clint groaned and slid back against the booth for a moment, tilting his head up toward the light as he agonized, “I adore Pastel Puppet. Then, there’s Videodrone… and don’t even get me started on Dollhouse. She might be the best of them all.” He sighed and sat up again. “But here I am, sitting across from Monodrama, possibly the next big name in pop music, and she’s about to retire without ever having performed for me.”

“It truly is a shame,” I sighed, dropping my gaze to the table’s surface to shake my head. “After all, performing for you is a rite of passage for so many.”

“She’s told me so many times how honored she would be if you ever invited her to perform for you,” Dean chimed in. “Her goal in life was to sing for you. But that goal can be longer because she’s quitting the music industry to fulfill her duties in the home.”

“Wait!” Clint exclaimed, breaking into conversation rather abruptly, leaning across the table so abruptly I thought he might leap straight out of his seat. “The Gala’s coming up! You can sing there!”

Dean’s face brightened with a sudden epiphany. “Yes!” he added, nodding eagerly and leaning forward, though he was careful not to just haul me over with him. “Absolutely, she would love to do it.”

Though I wasn’t necessarily pleased with Dean jumping into conversation and answering for me, it only took a matter of seconds for me to realize what this would mean. For me to perform at the gala would be a marvelous opportunity for the Brotherhood to strike. Even though I never would have agreed to it myself, I forced the smile onto my face and feigned elation when I told Kennedy, “You have no idea how excited this would make me, Commander.”

“Call me Clint,” Kennedy corrected. Truthfully, I didn’t want to call him anything, especially not his first name. “You’re Dean’s wife, which practically makes you family.” Kennedy grinned a little. “I mean, all the shit Dean and I have been through… right, Cassidy?”

“Right,” Dean agreed with a nod.

“Weddings, family vacations, dinners with my father,” Clint droned on, listing all of simply dreadful things he and Dean had endured together. “We’re basically brothers with different accents.”

“I miss your father,” Dean stated quietly. His face seemed to falter a little as his fingers clasped the stem of his wine glass. “He was a great man.” I didn’t doubt for a moment that Dean was telling the truth. I could see the disappointment in his eyes, the utter mourning. There were things he wanted to say, held back behind uncomfortably puckered lips.

“Yeah, he was,” Clint murmured quickly, rushed. I had the feeling that perhaps Kennedy didn’t share Dean’s sentiment.

Dean was silent, seemingly lost in the way his red wine swirled around in the glass. My eyes turned to Kennedy from behind the lenses of dark sunglasses. “You don’t seem very affected,” I pointed out.

Kennedy’s dark eyes drifted back to my face in a narrowed gaze. “There’s no time for me to mourn. I have a world to lead,” he snapped. “Cassidy, you’d do well to teach your wife some manners.”

Blinking, Dean’s blue eyes lifted back to Kennedy. For once, I couldn’t tell exactly what he was thinking. He had snapped of a daze, but I could see the slight strain in the corner of his eyes and the downward twitch in the corner of his mouth as he watched Kennedy rise and brush off his suit jacket.

“If you’ll excuse me.” Kennedy whistled and all three of his guard came to his side. Before he strode off, he turned back and said, “I expect you ready by 7 o’clock on May 4th.”

Once he was out of earshot, I felt my breath catching in my throat. I tried to slow it down, tried to steady myself. Dean pulled me closer to him and rubbed my shoulder. “Sh,” he hushed me.

“Muscles, can we go?” I asked quietly. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

With a nod, Dean ushered me out, quick and quiet, though we acted like not a thing was wrong, at least until we got into the car. Almost immediately, Dean gave me his jacket to cover up with before I pulled off the wig. “How do you sit through those things?” I mumbled, taking the sunglasses off and scrubbing a hand over my face.

“I don’t know,” Dean replied, shaking his head. “Come on, Blondie. Let’s get home.”